《Plague Born》


 Chapter 1

    "How about this: I empty both ashtrays into what''s left of my beer, and I mix it ''round and ''round with my index finger, and then I drink it. The whole stinking mixture. If I don''t down every last sooty drop of it, I buy you your next round. But if I do somehow manage to slurp it all down, then you get me another. How does that sound, friend?"


    The huge bald man on the bar-stool next to me grins. He''s missing a few teeth, but it somehow suits him -- maybe ''cause he''s missing equally big dents out of his head. He looks from ashtray to ashtray, both over-spilling with the blackened corpses of cigarettes, then at what''s left of my beer. "You''re going to eat all that shit -- mixed into your beer? What if you vomit it up after?"


    "Same rules. I buy you your next drink. Any drink you want."


    His eyes wander from me to the shelf of spirits perched behind the bar. He''s wondering either what''s the most expensive out of them, or what''s got the highest alcohol content. Doesn''t matter what he chooses: I can''t afford it. Only thing in my pocket is a last stick of chewing gum. His head begins to bob. "Okay, yeah you''re on." He removes the cigarette that he shouldn''t be smoking -- but that no one''s going to tell him not to -- from his mouth, and twists the end of it into the nearest ashtray.


    I stare down at the long stub. "You''re going to leave half your smoke?"


    "Yeah," he says, grin ever widening. "Problem?"


    "I was only going to drink ashes, not eat--"


    "Problem?" He sits up straight, his huge shadow darkening me, his face hard.


    "No. No, there''s no problem. I just wasn''t that hungry, but I guess I can make room." I grab the first ashtray and tip it into my drink, smacking the side to make sure all the ash falls in. There''s a little plop as the half-smoked cigarette drops down, followed by a lazy stream of smoke. As I take the second ashtray, the barman turns up the TV that''s hanging on the wall above him.


    "... Yes, Tony. That''s the fourth Storm Born dead, attempting to help evacuate this area of Northern California. She didn''t make it more than a mile before she stopped moving and her vitals fell. In related news, scientists widely suspect that the pathogen is man-made. Whether domestic terrorism, or foreign, remains to be--"


    I tune out as soon as I know the dead Storm Born ain''t Susie and get on with the task at hand. "There," I say, as the debris swirls around my glass. The dry grey surface hides a turbid underbelly. The brown cigarette juts out like a ship stuck in a swamp.


    The big man looks into my glass and I see his face shift in disgust. Even he looks concerned. "You not going to stir it more?"


    "This is how I like it." I pick it up and start to gulp down the mixture, tapping a nail on the bottom of the glass to help it slide down. Tastes as bad as I imagined it would, like lumpy dry medicine, but that''s okay. I get to wash it down with a refreshing beverage shortly.


    I wipe my lips with the back of my hand; black ash smears my skin. "There," I say. "Now where''s my beer?"


    The man just gapes for a while. "You some kind of freak."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Not sure if it''s a statement or a question, I just shrug. "Mine''s a Guinness."


    He nods at me, then grunts at the barman who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the reporter on the screen.


    "You going to be sick something awful tonight," the big man says as the beer is put down on the bar.


    "I don''t get sick," I reply.


    "Oh yeah?" says the barman, suddenly leaning over to me, interested. He''s got slicked back grease for hair, but sharp eyes and they''re already studying me. The big man has turned away and is talking to his friend.


    Long sip. It helps loosen the ash stuck in my throat. "Yeah."


    "Never been ill?" the barman continues.


    "Nope. Not since I was a baby."


    His brows furrow. Then a kind of realization dawns on his features. "You''re not one... Nah, never mind. You couldn''t be."


    "Storm Born? Sorta. I was born in a plague, not a storm or the shadows of some flowing volcano. My gifts are... different."


    He looks excited. "You are one of them! Holy shit, in my bar?! Why didn''t you say? Rest of your drinks are on me, as long as you let me chalk up the board outside. If people know I got a Storm Born... In my bar!" He repeats the line shaking his head. "Wait till Mama hears about this."


    I drink my beer and drift away, only half aware of the barman''s incessant talk. He wants to know where I''m from. What plague. How''d I live through it. When did I find my powers. All the usual. To him, I was just another blessed child, born and found -- forged -- in the aftermath of disaster. Mother Nature''s attempt to right man''s wrongs.


    He doesn''t want to know being born in a plague meant all my family were dead before my first full day alive was over. Or about the foster homes. Or the prisons. Or the rejection from the Storm Born themselves. People like the barman, they never want to know the real stuff. Just the fantasy of it. But then he says, still shaking his head in disbelief, something that catches my attention. "They could sure use a guy who doesn''t get sick in California right now."


    I stop drinking and let myself chew the line over. Only for a second, mind you. Then I say, "I''m not a hero. Never was, never will be. Understand?"


    "Never said you were." Hands raised defensively. "Never said you were. But... I bet, with the right negotiator, they''d pay a fortune to the man who could make it to where the plague started. Find out what -- who -- created it. That''s the first step to making an antidote they said on the news. It''s why all the Storms are trying and dying."


    My beer is empty. I push the glass towards the man. He looks at me, then takes it and refills.


    "Just another beer. That''s all I want today. Like every other day."


    "I get it. No problem. I''m sure you don''t need the money at all."


    But as I''m drinking the second, and then even more-so the third, I start to wonder just how much they would pay.


    On my fourth, as I visit the urinals, the money aspect is strangely draining away with the some of the beer.


    Then on my fifth drink, my mind is a blurred, reluctant image of Susie. I try to scribble her out, but she won''t go away. Her blue eyes are still there, peering through the blackness at me.


    What if she tries to go in? Is she that stupid?


    Maybe. She did date me for a few weeks, after all.


    Maybe thinks she can cleanse the area with water or something.


    Things might have ended badly -- very badly -- but I still don''t need her being the next dead Storm Born.


    "Ah shit," I say, loud enough to catch the barman''s attention. "I hate California."


    His eyes seem to shine. "You''re going? Someone from my bar is going to save the world?"


    "I''m going. Didn''t say nothing about saving the world. But I''ll tell you what, if you phone the army or the government, or whoever you need, and negotiate my payment while I think out a plan...And have another pint... Well, whatever you manage to get from them, I''ll give you five percent of it -- if you drive me to the airport."


    He grins like a man who knows a secret. "Twenty percent and I''ll book our plane tickets too."


    "Our? What do you mean our?" I glare at him, but he still grins like a clown on its birthday. "And twenty? You out of your mind? I''m the one risking my neck. Five percent or nothing."


    He pauses. "Ten percent, and free beers here for a year."


    It takes me a heartbeat to decide -- it is a shithole, after all -- but then I raise my glass to him, my face stretching to a smile. "Cheers to that."


    "Carl," he says, reaching a hand out towards me."


    "Sammy."

 Chapter 2

    It isn''t just the usual throaty roar of the plane''s engine, or the air pressure squeezing my brain like a clamp, that''s causing the hammering behind my eyes. It''s another thumping disturbing me: the arrhythmia-like kicking of a child''s shoes slamming against the back of my economy-class seat.


    Thud. Thud. Thud. Mommy, I want a snack! Mommy my Game Boy''s out of batteries. Mommy I''m a selfish spoilt prick who is pissing off the man in front of me something rotten, and if I''m not careful he might turn around grab my neck and snap it.


    "Penny for your thoughts," says Carl, jovially. He''s squashed into the seat next to mine but doesn''t care about the lack of legroom. He''s just as pleased as punch with the publicity he''ll be getting. Maybe for his bar''s sake, but I figure it''s more for his mom''s. Something to make the old bag proud, even if it''s just through his lucky circumstances.


    I reply, "I was thinking back to when I used to travel by private jet. A silver cabin with walls so padded that it turned the hum of the engine into a sky-high lullaby. Like traveling on a cloud. This... This is like sailing a sewer on a turd."


    "Yeah, it ain''t the Ritz, that''s true, but it''s not so bad. Say, Sammy, how long were you with the Storm Guards exactly?"


    "The Guards? A couple of years. All my life before that I was being groomed for it, though."


    Carl frowns. "Groomed all your life, then left after only a couple of years? They can''t have liked that much. Why''d you leave?"


    "Reasons," I answer. I don''t tell him any though, like finding out I was little more than a puppet for people without ''gifts'' but who were far more powerful than any of us. Reasons like that are better kept to myself.


    "Well, you might have left the Storms, but I''m telling you that the man I called from the SGB was thrilled to hear you were still alive. Thrilled! Said they hadn''t heard from you for a decade or more."


    "I had nothing left to say to them."


    "That''s as maybe, but we wouldn''t be on this flight without the SGB''s cooperation, to be perfectly frank. Bit of luck that they found two cancellations on the very next flight leaving, don''t you think so, Sammy my new friend?"


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    "Luck, right," I say, grabbing a passing stewardess''s arm. I doubted it was luck that the Storm Bureau had seats become available. Doubted it was luck they''d chosen for me to make my grand return in an economy can of sardines. They want me groveling, by the time I get there. Well fuck that for a bag of chips.


    The stewardess half-heartedly covers her annoyance at being grabbed at, and says, "Can I help you, sir?"


    "There aren''t any spare seats, perchance, are there lady? I mean, I know the flight''s full, but how about the ones reserved for cabin crew or something? I know there are always a few kept back, and my new friend here would be glad to help you see green, if you could get me moved."Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Carl looks puzzled, half glad to be referred to as a friend of a Storm Born, half annoyed to be my walking wallet about to cough out for bribery.


    "Full flight, sir."


    "Yeah, I know, that''s what I said. But--"


    "Full. Flight. Sir."


    Bitch. I deflate back into my seat.


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    That little fucker behind me. I shout after the stewardess, "You do those tiny bottles of spirits on this flight?"


    She turns, nods -- pleased to be asked a question she expects -- and spews out a well-recited list. "Brandy, vodka, rum--"


    "Five of the brandy. Glass full of ice. Thanks."


    "Five?"


    I hold up five fingers and put on a wide sardonic smile. "Five. Brandy. On. The. Rocks."


    Carl leans over as the exasperated stewardess walks away. He says, nervously, "I only got so much cash out, Sammy, my friend. And drinks on flights can be awfully expensive. Not like back in the bar. You know what I''m saying?"


    "Yeah, I hear you."


    "Oh." Concern eases itself into relief, his wrinkled forehead crevices plastering themselves up. "Good. That''s great."


    "You''re saying that you''re going to have pay by card."


    I can almost hear his wince. He''s not been paid a thing yet by the SGB. Just promises -- and there''s nothing worth less in the world than a promise. Carl takes out a notepad and begins to write. What he writes exactly, I can''t see and don''t care.


    I pull down the tray from the back of the seat in front of me, and take out the two newspapers I''d found at the airport. One is today''s. The other took some rummaging through a few trash cans to acquire: three days old. Its caked with brown and yellow stains, at least on the front, so I scrape off the thicker smears to uncover the headline.


    Storm Born Deaths: Bodies of Greg and Pete Pitt recovered


    It is a day for lament, not just in the great country of California, but for the world itself, as we are hurting today as a species. This is the earth-shattering news, that the earth-shattering twins, Greg and Pete, are dead. Their contributions to the EasternWestern truce will of course never be forgotten.


    The Pitts were two of the most recently born powered individuals to be found, twenty-six years of age. Only one Storm Born has been found in the time since. The twins were last seen at the southern border of the contamination zone, attempting, along with six other Storms, to prevent the spread of the contaminate, and to help evacuate the area. Unfortunately, they went missing in the early hours of yesterday morning. Their bodies were found three kilometers into the no-go zone. What had led them to enter is unknown, and the SGB has thus far made no formal statement about their activities.


    Thud. Thud. Thump!


    I put the paper down and get up, turning to face the little shit behind me. He''s alone, his mother either in the toilets, or else she''s done the sensible thing of finding a parachute and abandoning ship.


    "What you want?" he asks me abrasively. He can only be ten, but God, what a punchable face, the way his blond fringe overhangs, and how he''s chewing and popping gum like it''s going out of style.


    "You mind not kicking my seat, kid? I''m trying to read."


    He smiles, nods, and gives an affected. "Sowwy."


    I turn back to my paper, and just about find my place when: Thud. Thud. Thud.


    This time, I don''t stand, I just turn enough to glare at him through the gap between the seats.


    "Sowwy, sowwy!" Then he just laughs, until through tears, he says, "You''re so old and stupid!"


    And that''s it. I take a deep breath then breathe out a stream of pale green gas that twists its way from my mouth to his face. Engulfing him.


    For a second, he looks surprised, and that''s all, wondering what the hell is happening. Then, as the gas surrounds him, his eyes roll. "I want... My... Mommm." His head falls, lulling onto his shoulder. His eyes close


    Maybe I can get some peace, at last. Bring my self up to date with the goings-on properly. I didn''t know the Pitt twins, they were after my time, but I doubted they were stupid enough to walk into death totally unprotected.


    The stewardess returns with my drinks. Her nose twitches and her faces scrunches up in revolt. For a second, I feel the slightest pang of guilt at releasing my gasses.


    It quickly fades.


    I nod behind me. "The kid," I say. "I think he''s shit himself."

 Chapter 3

    I lit a cigarette and leaned against a brick wall at the rear of the airport''s carpark as taxis hissed past. Carl was still inside, sorting out our ride. It would a five-hour drive from Redding International to Fort Jones, and after the flight I''d just suffered, I made it clear to Carl I that I''d need something with a little legroom.


    The kid who''d been sitting behind me on the flight had woken up thirty minutes or so after I''d knocked him out and had thought better of kicking my seat again. In fact, he didn''t say another word. The brandy had soothed my headache a little, but I''d still felt tense and found myself wondering if maybe if the kid wasn''t to blame completely for my foul mood.


    Truth was, I hadn''t liked the thought of Susie being anywhere near where four Storms had gone missing. Died. And I hadn''t really liked the thought of seeing her again period, neither. But unlike me, the plane didn''t have doubts, it just kept shooting inexorably forwards towards California.


    A car honks. A red Ford Mustang, a thick black stripe running up its center. The vehicle suits Carl, who''s sitting behind the wheel. Matches his slicked black hair and thick-rimmed sunglasses.


    "Can I give you a ride?" He gives me his best white-toothed grin."It''s a convertible, too, if you want the roof down. You can stick your legs out of that, am I right? Can''t get more room than a convertible."


    "It''ll do," I reply, stepping into the road and walking around to the rear of the car.


    Carl leans out the open window. "Hey, where you going?"


    "Just behind you. Carl, listen, I need you to rev the engine," I say. "Couple of times. When I say go, got it?" I crouch down and put my mouth by the exhaust. "Okay, go!"


    "...What?"


    Sigh. "I said go! Rev the fucking engine, Carl."


    He pauses. There''s honking from the car behind him, the car that''s bonnet is almost up my ass. "Carl, there are people waiting. So rev the car."


    Finally, he gives its some gas and a stream of black smoke blasts out. I cover the exhaust the best I can with my mouth and inhale deeply, swallowing it down. "One more time, Carl!"


    This time, less hesitation. The burning black soot flows down my lungs.


    "What the fuck''s wrong with you?" says the driver of the car behind. He''s out of his vehicle, watching me cup my mouth around the metal, his white vest struggling to cover his beer-belly. "This a queer thing?"


    I get to my feet, my stomach letting me know it''s had enough. A burp escapes me, mostly black still -- it''s not had the time to be digested and changed into its essence. I flip the guy the bird and get into the passenger seat.


    "Ready."


    Carl nods, slowly, and pulls away. He doesn''t say anything until we''re on the highway, the evening sun blazing an orange trail on the hills in front of us. "So uh, does it taste good or something?"


    "What do you think?"


    Scratches his chin. "I don''t think it tastes good at all. But you know, my momma is Italian, and she''s always talking about the quality of ingredients, so you know, maybe I''m just snobby when it comes to that kind of thing."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I almost laugh. Carl would bend so far back to please me, or at least to not offend me, that he''d willingly snap his own spine in the process.


    "It doesn''t taste good, Carl. Tastes like shit, in fact. But you get used to it."


    The road is quiet. Few cars heading the opposite way to us. No cars our side. No one heading up north. From what I''d read on the plane, the radius of the no-go zone had been stable for a few days, ever since the Storms had arrived. Before that though, it had expanded erratically and massively. Hundreds dead in the first day. If it was an act of God, then it was just luck the plague, or whatever it was, had broken out in a pretty desolate area, population-wise.


    "Then why''d you do it?"


    It had taken Carl a minute to ask his question as if it had been sitting on his tongue but afraid to dive off into the water. Didn''t want to offend.


    "You know how diabetics have to inject themselves with some shit every day? Sugar or something."


    "Insulin."


    "Sure, insulin. Well, that exhaust smog is like my home-made insulin injection. And it''s a little more than that, besides. But think of it that way. Insulin."


    He nods, but he''s likely thinking how unlucky he got to have befriended the biggest freak of all the Storm Borns.


    "There''s a job waiting at the bar, if you ever need one," he says.


    "Oh yeah? What''s that?"


    "Cleaning the shitters. They stink, let me tell you. A man with your talents is worth his weight in gold to a man like me -- I got a feeling it might take you longer than a single Friday night to quit on me."


    And I''m laughing. Carl actually surprised me. He''s grinning too. And for the first time since that news report at the bar, my nerves lessen. Puts me in a good enough mood to ask Carl a question. "Your mom teach you to cook?"


    "Yeah, a little. I do a mean spaghetti bol. She wanted me to open a restaurant, you know? Not a bar."


    "Why didn''t you?"


    He shrugs. "I don''t know. Just always wanted to own my own bar. To work as the barman and be there for people to unload their lives to. Like a shrink, except, you know, I give people vodka instead of advice."


    "That''s better than advice."


    "Right? Cheaper, too." A long pause. "Too cheap."


    I catch him frowning. "Too cheap?"


    "Ehh, rough times at the moment. But uh"--he looks at me and smiles--"when people hear a hero like you drinks in my little waterhole, they''ll come flooding in. Prices can go up some, too."


    "I''m not a hero."


    "Not yet."


    "Not planning on being."


    "Sure, well, just a Storm Born. People will just assume you''re a hero. That''s all that matters."


    "Right."


    "Radio?" he asks.


    "Sure."


    He flicks through a few stations until the thrumming dual guitars of "Hotel Califonia" ring out.


    On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair.


    I click my fingers. "This. Pump it up."


    He twists the volume knob until the Eagles are almost deafening us, as we ride into the evening, towards a poisoned cloud. But in this light, on this road that cuts through redwoods and farmland, danger seems so distant. So vague and abstract that it seems almost absurd.


    ''Relax'' said the night man, ''We are programmed to receive.


    You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave!''

 Chapter 4

    "This is where we''re staying?"


    Carl, still standing besides the parked up Mustang, as if scared to leave its side, shrugs. "They said someone''ll meet us at Fort Jones. And this is Fort Jones."


    Around us, the village -- nothing more than a set of shacks -- looks dead. What a strange little relic of a place. Even in the moonlight, I can tell no real thought has been put into the "village''s" construction. No real streets. Just buildings sporadically sitting on dirt, some sagging in on themselves as if their wood was rotting. Probably was. "It''s like a train went off its tracks," I remark, "and its wooden carriages tumbled into the desert. And then people moved into them, like insects moving into fallen logs."


    "Was an outpost town, I think. Frontier stuff. We''re steeped in history here, my friend. So... I guess that''s cool?"


    "Town?" I scoff. "Sure. Town." I just about see what he means, though. It was one of those towns that had sprung up overnight when the need for it arrived. Like a goldrush town -- short-lived, used up, abandoned and left to rot. The skeleton of a town.


    "Mister Connor?" comes a high voice from... somewhere. "Mister Connor, is that you?"


    There''s a lady in the doorway of what might have once been a saloon, its big swing doors open, orange light glowing from somewhere deep inside. Long hair trails around her shoulders, but other than that, she''s just a tall silhouette against the light.


    "Hey!" says Carl, striding towards her. "That''s my friend you''re after, Mister Sammy Connor. I''m Carl Antone." He raises out a hand and the shadowed lady takes it and shakes.


    "I heard there were two people due, but uh... Why are you here, Carl? You his chauffeur? Surely not his bodyguard?"


    "Manager," Carl says as I reach them. "I''m his manager. I''ll be doing the negotiations on his behalf."


    "... I see."


    "And who the hell are you?" I ask.


    She offers me her hand but I don''t take it. She reeks of the Storm Bureau and I have no interest in getting their stench onto my skin. Not if I don''t have to. She''s svelte and young and pretty, a typical pickup for the bureau.


    "Elena," she says, dropping her arm. "Come on in and we''ll talk. There''s a bedroom ready for you both, for when we''re done."


    "Bedroom? Surely this ain''t where you guys are operating from. A bunch of shacks in the middle of nowhere? We''re still two hundred miles out from no-go zone."


    "More like one-fifty, now," she says, sighing. "It''s... moving, again. I''ll reassess the situation in the morning, and if it''s safe to travel, I''ll take you to the base."


    The unease is back full strength now, wrapping itself tightly around my chest, finishing with a bow that reads: Susie.


    "I want to go tonight," I say.


    "Well that''s not happening, Mister Connor," Elena says, turning and stepping into the slatted building.


    "Sammy," I say, as Carl and I follow. "Call me Sammy, or I''ll lose my mind. I hate that formal shit."


    "Whatever you say, Mister Connor."


    "Well what do you know?" says Carl, taking in the large fire-lit room.


    We''re actually in a saloon. A crooked old man with a beard is leaning against the bar; dozens of green and brown bottles sit on wooden shelves behind him. He has three patrons, all sitting together at a table and playing cards together. It''s like we''ve just stepped back in time, back into the wild west. There''s even an old piano sitting in the corner just waiting for someone to slam its out-of-tune keys.


    Elena walks up the old man and orders three beers.


    "I usually drink something harder," I say.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "My beer''s as heavy as a quart of gin," says the old man cryptically, pouring a brown slag from a tap into a handled glass, then passing it to me. He pours two more.


    We take our drinks, following Elena to a table in the corner.


    Elena eyes Carl cautiously. "I''m really not sure how much I can say in front of your friend, Mister--."


    "Sammy," I say. "Say, you got some dirt just below your left eye." I reach across with a finger. "Here, let me..."


    She leans back, avoiding me. "That''s a mole. But thank you. Now, as I was saying, I''m not sure how much I can say in front of your friend."


    I don''t really care if Carl''s with us, or up sleeping in his room. But I like that the lady is confused. Unsure of herself. Clearly, she''s not been briefed for us properly -- and that gives me the upper hand.


    "He''s my manager," I say, keeping her off balance. "And either he stays, or we both go."


    "Cheers to that," says Carl, a huge smile forming. He takes a long gulp of his beer, then starts spluttering it back up. "Holy shit, this tastes likes rum, not beer."


    I try it. He''s right. It''s strong enough to clean old leather. "Not bad," I say." Then I lean back in my chair and look at the agent. "Are you sure that''s a mole?"


    "I''m quite sure. I''ve had it all my life."


    I shrug. If I''d met her under other circumstances, I''d probably tell her how much it suits her. "So, what are we going to do about Carl?"


    "I should put in a call."


    I sense her reluctance. She''d already have made the call it if it was that easy. But either there''s no reception here, or else the phone line''s down completely. "Sure, go for it," I say, calling her bluff.


    She scowls into her beer so that her reflection chastises her. "Fine! Fine, okay. Let me start by asking you a question. Why are you here? You''ve been gone years, Mist-- Sammy. Why are you back now?"


    Oh, money for one. I''m all out and doing tricks in bars just to get a drink. And Susie, of course. Because I never stopped loving her after she ripped my heart out and screwed her high-heel into it. "I want to help. I was a storm guard once, and now my friends are dying. Not to mention all the other deaths. The normal people we swore to protect."


    She nods, satisfied. "What do you know about the plague?"


    "Plague? Is that what it is?" My mind flashes back to thoughts that I can''t really remember; of being a baby found beside a thousand corpses by a man with long-beaked mask. Thoughts I''ve created myself, that leak into my dreams.


    "It''s what we''re calling it. But the truth is, we don''t know. It''s not radiation, and it''s not anything natural."


    "I read in the news," Carl says, "that you''re trying to get to the center of the uh... of the plague. That you think you''ll find whatever''s triggered it there. Maybe be able to stop it or create an antidote.


    She nods. "Right. So, as you know it''s spreading like a fog air-borne, but low to the ground. A huge area of infected air that''s growing in the strangest of ways. Not steadily, but erratically. Some days, like today, it might grow a hundred miles symmetrically -- in every direction. Other days, it doesn''t move at all. Some of that is down to our work -- we''ve encased parts of it, twisted the land to trap it, or kept air streamed to make its movement almost impossible."


    "Erratic isn''t nature''s way," I say.


    "You tell that to my sister," Carl says.


    "Right, we don''t think it''s natural. We never thought that."


    "So, something in the middle of the fog is generating it?"


    "Maybe? We can''t get close enough to find out. We send in vehicles, they stop responding to us after a few miles. Never see or hear from them again. We send in people and..." Her voice trails off.


    "And they end up like the Pitt twins," I say.


    "Why did they go in?" Carl asks.


    She shrugs. "We don''t know. We''ve lost four Storm Born, and we shouldn''t have lost any. They were all briefed not to enter. I mean, why would they? Unless they''re suicidal. But we''ve got video footage of the twins leaving their posts... Just, wandering into the mist, blank faces and black eyes. Almost like they were sleepwalking."


    "The fog was calling to them," I say, mostly to myself. I take a long sip of my drink and enjoy the cool burn.


    "Something like that."


    "Where''s Susie?"


    She frowns. Then, she understands who I mean. "Oh, Autumn?"


    Autumn. I forgot she uses that name nowadays. Always wanted a superheroine name, but nothing too on the nose. Something pretty. Like autumn rain. "Yeah, her."


    "She''s fine -- Autumn isn''t needed, seeing as the fog isn''t near the coast. Not yet, at least, So she''s just here as an adviser, offering her expertise."


    "And what''s your role, Elena?" Carl asks.


    "Dogsbody for the Storm Guards," I answer. "Wants to work her way up the ladder, ''cause there ain''t no more glamorous job in the world, than whoring yourself out for Storms, right, Elena? The fame that comes just through association with them."


    She scowls at me, her face reddening, and I like the way it looks on her. She grabs her beer as if considering throwing it. "Ass," she says, in the end.


    "Yeah. I am. But you can do better than be used by a company like that."


    "They''re not a company. They''re a multi-governmental agency."


    "Sure." I tap my empty glass on the table. "How about another round, and we''ll discuss what you''d like me to do about all this."


    "And negotiate payment for services rendered by my client," adds Carl.


    "They''ve got a lot of money," I tell him. "Take them for all you can. Maybe you can own a bar and a restaurant."


    Elena ignores us. "You know what we want. We''ve been dealt a joker, with you getting back in touch. An unforeseen opportunity that we need to take. We want you to go inside of it. To find out what''s generating the poison."


    I laugh. "We don''t even know if I''ll liveif I go in."


    She grins, "Well I for one am willing to take that risk." Then, she gets up and heads to the bar.


    "She''s sassy," says Carl.


    "Yeah. I like her."

 Chapter 5

    The stench is shit and piss and rotting bodies. Corpses litter the small harbor town, that itself is covered in a thick shawl of fog. Some of the residents'' bodies are half-way between their homes and their cars, others have fallen alone in the street or while crossing the roads Wherever they have collapsed, their bodies begin to violently tremble; all control of their limbs and their bowels, gone.


    All they can do now is scream.


    Above the mist, the clouds are thick and roiling, and the rain that falls stings their skin like insects biting.


    There is a body covering me protectively. My mother''s? I''m not sure, even watching from here, from the god-like perspective that the dream gives me. The skin on her face is turning green, peeling away from her skull like damp wall-paper. I want to look away, God I want to... But something won''t let me.


    I''m crying. Hungry, cold, and terrified. Swaddled in a damp cloth, held by stiff hands.


    The fog thickens, is whipped in waves by the ocean squall.


    How long am I there for, I don''t know. The sun might have risen and set as I watch, but behind the clouds and behind the fog, the sky is a secret.


    I see the orange leather beak first, bobbing through the fog. Its tip is red, as if dipped in blood. Then, the goggles, and the cloak, and the boots that stomp stomp stomp towards me.


    The thing, person, unfolds my mother''s protective arm and picks me up, pulling me close to his chest. Then, the creature carries me away through the mist.


    ***


    Jesus Christ.


    I''ve not had that dream in years. Perhaps... Perhaps I''ve finally drunk too much. Whatever the fuck that stuff was, it wasn''t beer.


    I sit upright in bed, sweat-damp and cold, and stare at my watch. Four-thirty in the morning.


    Too early.


    That dream. It''s not real, it never was. It''s not something a baby could possibly remember.


    Funny how the brain can do that, can make its own memories and turn them so real that you''d swear on them. But that wasn''t how it had happened. Wasn''t how I was found.


    It''s too early to get up and too late to get back to sleep, at least it is the way I''m feeling. I''ve got enough darkness in my mind that shutting my eyes is a bridge too far right now.


    For a while, I just wait sat upright in the damp sheets, and force my mind to find better thoughts. But I don''t have many of them stored up. Instead, I look around the bedroom and try to hold onto something real.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The room I''ve been given is small and I doubt it could be very warm in the winter. I can almost see straight out of the crooked cracks beneath windows. But on a muggy night, like yesterday, the fresh air that wriggles through the gaps was welcome.


    I click my neck and decide to get dressed. The door whispers a squeak as I step out into the upstairs hallway. There are no lights. Carl and the agent lady, Elena, must still be asleep. Along with any other guests -- and the landlord himself.


    Three hours sleep, at most. It''s not going to be a good day.


    Not that it was going to be a good day, anyway.


    My eyes adjust to the darkness and I take the stairs slowly, stepping on the sides of the steps, where they''re least worn and least squeaking.


    Maybe I''ll get a morning drink. Might settle a few nerves.


    The dream steers its way back into my mind, along with the sludge they call beer here, and I think, maybe I''ll skip it after all.


    I make it to the bottom of the stairwell, and to my surprise, there''s a light on at the end of the corridor -- in the main hall where we''d been drinking. Shit. The landlord had been up when I''d crawled up to bed, and he was still up now. There must be some truth in that idiom about old people not needing sleep.


    I decide I''ll put up with his company, rather than going back to my room and putting up with my own company for the next few hours.


    I push open the door. This one doesn''t creak.


    The two figures don''t see or hear me.


    "Once we get there, then we can decide," says the first. Elena.


    "I don''t like any of this, Elle. One fucking b--"


    Elena''s eyes find me, lurking in the doorway; she jolts back, as if the devil had walked in.


    "Oh. You''re up already," says the second figure. Carl, getting up from his seat on the other side of the room.


    "You fuckers know each other," I reply, as gears, rusty from beer and lack of sleep, begin to click. I''ve been set up. Carl''s bar, my ass. Carl, who was only too happy to leave it closed and come to the middle of nowhere with me, for a pittance of a possible pay day. How the fuck did I fall for that.


    They''d found me. They''d hunted me down after all these years, because they''d needed me.


    How long had they been following me, studying my habits, waiting until the day they had to drag me back in to the flock?


    "You fuck stain," I say. "The pair of you."


    "Ah, shit," Carl -- if that''s even his name -- says. "I''m sorry, friend. But we didn''t have a choice. If we''d asked nice, you might have come, but you might not have. I was sent to bring you here, willing or not."


    "Willing or not?" Anger spikes my stomach. "Willing or not? You think you could have brought me here if I hadn''t wanted to come?"


    "I''d have had to try." He shrugs, almost sympathetic.


    "Calm down, Sammy," Elena says.


    "You can shut your trap too," I tell her. Then, back to Carl. "Did you tell me even one fucking truth?"


    "Yeah, sure I did, friend!" He pauses and considers. "I really do cook a mean spag bol."


    "Fuck you." I turn and make to leave the bar, done with the pair of them. Let the Storms die. Each and every one of them. I grab the door handle and it''s burning my skin?


    I let it go and shake my hand. No, it didn''t burn, not exactly. The door handle had been freezing cold. Like ice. I turn and look from one to the other. It takes me a moment. "Which of you did that?"


    Carl raises his hand. "That''d be me."


    "Right, well here''s a little something from me to you, to thank you for all your help." I open my mouth and am about to send them both to sleep -- or somewhere beyond -- but nothing comes out. My mouth won''t open. I bring my hand to it, trying to pry it apart, and I find the thick ice that has knitted my lips together.


    "Mmm!" I mumble, furious.


    "Sorry, friend," says Carl. "But we can''t have you doing that. Now, either you get in the car with us by your own volition, or I freeze your legs into a block of ice and we carry you. But honestly, it''ll be more comfortable, and warmer, if you just do as you''re told."

 Chapter 6

    We took the Mustang. I hadn''t walked willingly over to it, so I''d soon found my ankles tethered together by an ice cube thick enough to have sunk the Titanic. Whoever Carl was, he was well trained and irritatingly powerful.


    Once they bundled me into the back of the car, the two of them decided handcuffs would suffice and probably do less damage than the ice. Didn''t want the goods to develop hyperthermia, I guessed.


    Carl''s younger than me. I''d noticed it before, but not really considered it. Maybe ten years. Explained why I didn''t know him -- I''d been off the team for that long. Or AWOL, depending on your perspective.


    There hadn''t been a new Storm Born found in twenty years, at least as far as I knew. And if I had to guess, I''d have said Carl was somewhere in his mid-twenties -- that would make him one of, if not the last Storm found.


    We were a dying breed, now more than ever.


    For a while, I practice some of my more colorful vocabulary with Elena and Carl -- profanities that I''d picked up all over the globe.


    Instead of icing my mouth, Carl just turns up the radio until I''m drowned out. Eventually, voice hoarse, I give it up. Figure I''ll get payback another time. And I figure also, seeing as how the sandman hadn''t stayed with me for long last night, that I''ll catch a few winks instead.


    ***


    The radio is quieter when I awake, but the sun screams in my eyes and the world''s ablaze. Or maybe it''s just my eyes on fire. Result is still the same.


    "Where are we?" I ask, shifting my body upright, skin slurping off the leather upholstery.


    "Good morning," says Elena, turning to check on me. She even offers a smile that creases the skin around her mole.


    My head''s spinning. "I need a drink."


    "Sorry," she says. "No drinks available on this journey. But don''t worry, I think you''ll make it through."


    "I''m not so sure. God, I feel like shit."


    "Look like it too," says Carl. "But don''t worry, we''re almost there."


    The Mustang is bumping its way over a dirt road and it ain''t helping my head. On my right, through still bleary eyes, I see endless rows of trees climbing up hillside. On my left, a camp of some sorts. It''s all plastics and glass and everything is domed, but it has the same haphazard look as the Fort town we''d just left. As if someone had dropped the buildings out of a plane and just gone, ''fuck it, that''ll do for town planning''.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "I expected more than five big tents. This all you guys can afford now? Government funding dried up?"


    It was true that they weren''t the global agency they''d once been. Too many Storms dead for them to be relevant any longer -- and that was before the recent spate of fatalities. Not enough wars, either. Wars were the bread and butter of the Storm Guard. Everything else, every other problem, was better solved by intelligence, than by water or fire.


    "We''ve got to keep it mobile," says Carl. "In case the pathogen spreads this way. We''ve already had to shift base of operations twice and move it further down south."


    "Yeah? Well it looks like a bunch of greenhouses. You guys sell tomatoes? I love big juicy tomatoes."


    "We tried to move the people back in town, you know," says Elena. Is there something like guilt in her voice?


    "Uh huh."


    "But they''re stubborn. Born there. Parents born there. Say they''ll die there."


    "They will if they have any of that beer." I try to catch Carl''s eyes in the rearview mirror, but I can''t hold them. "Your name really Carl?"


    "Does it matter?"


    "Not really."


    "Carlos," he says. "But you can still call me Carl."


    "I''d rather call you asshole."


    He shrugs. "If you want your lips to be frozen off your face, you do that."


    I fucking hate Storm Guards. Almost forgot why, but Carl - Carlos -- brings it all back to me. He''s as up himself as any of them. And the worst thing? I bet he believes he''s doing it for all the right reasons. He''ll justify any shit, killing, torture, freezing my balls off me, any of it, because someone''s whispering in his ear telling him that it''s the right thing to do. None of them can think for themselves.


    "You must be looking forward to seeing Autumn," Elena says, her voice not unkind. "She''s spoken highly of you."


    I laugh. A deep rumble that rises from my belly and soon swallows the inside of the car. "Highly? Get out of here. You know the last thing she said to me?"


    No answer.


    "She said: ''get fucked and die''. Speaks highly of me now, does she indeed? Bullshit."


    "Well..." she says, "you do kind of have that effect on people. But, even if she did feel like that, well, it''s been a long time and people change."


    "She''s married," says Carlos, as if he knows just which of my buttons to press. Then he makes it exponentially more painful for me by adding, "To a Storm. They''ve got a son, too. Cute little kid. As cute as a button. Beautiful family."


    Now it''s my turn to fall silent. I could ask which Storm, but I don''t really want an answer. Hell, I don''t even know why it cuts so deep, but it does all the same. Of course she''s fucking married. Of course she has a child. Why wouldn''t she? She always wanted a family, and she could have had any man she wanted. Or woman, for that matter. And a family, settling down, that was one thing she wasn''t ever going to get from me.


    Part of me, I think, is happy for her, even. But it''s a tiny nugget of gold in a river of resentment. Of jealousy.


    The Mustang jerks to a halt. "We''re here."


    Carlos and Elena get out of the car; Carlos comes around and opens the door next to me. He pats my cheek hard with the palm of his hand and says, "Now, if we let you out of your handcuffs, will you be a good boy and behave for us?"


    I grunt.


    "I''ll take that a yes."


    "Come on," says Elena. "You''ve got another old friend who wants to speak to you."


    "Well aren''t I mister popular?"


    "Not that popular, Sammy," says Carlos, grinning. "He''s been pretty pissed with you for about a decade."


    "Yeah? Try to find me someone who isn''t."

 Chapter 7

    The base is tense. It wouldn''t take a fully sober man to feel it. Air is thick and heavy, as if an electric storm is on its way. There''s a strange silence too, no birds or nothing like that, and it''s odd ''cause we''re less than a mile outside of thick woodland. Whole area used to be a national park and it should be brimming with life.


    "Come on," says Elena. "This way."


    I don''t resist. Don''t see the point now. I ain''t getting out of here unless they let me. I''m led down a path made from fresh wood-chippings. US marines are stationed outside two of the bubble-like tents, Cali-Corps soldiers are outside the others. This should be solely a California matter, but they don''t have the resources to manage something this big -- so, as usual, they''ve invited the good old US of A along for the ride. A forest fire? Well maybe Cali could cover that, if it wasn''t too big. If the flames weren''t too hot for them. Maybe. But an airborne contagion of unknown origin rapidly spreading through their country? A little beyond their abilities.


    Everyone had known this kind of shit -- Cali not being able to sort out their own problems -- would be an issue, back when they had seceded. Or at least, we''d all guessed it would be an issue. California had wealth, no doubt about it. Its president as rich and decadent as any middle-eastern sultan.


    And they had land, too. But what they were missing out on were balls. They''d traded them in to have a country of their own. They had been born on the motto of peace: no A-bombs, no H-bombs, a standing army that could fit in a warehouse -- how was a country like that going to deal with a real threat?


    They weren''t.


    They''d just hoped the uneasy global peace that the Storm Guards had helped to force into place was going to last. And if it didn''t: Ring ring; hello, is that America?


    Their motto was peace, but like any rich country, their wealth was covered in blood.


    The plastic make-shift building I''m being led to is the biggest of the tents. Reminds me of a tacky looking observatory, the way its roof is high and domed. It''s the only tent with one american solider and one cali solider posted outside of it. A show of unity, of equal power. Strangely magnanimous of America.


    "Inside," Elena says from over my shoulder.


    I turn back to look at her. Carlos is gone. "Where''s your boyfriend?"Stolen story; please report.


    "Colleague."


    Do I sense an edge of bitterness in her answer?


    "He''s got his own work to get on with. Inside."


    The light is white; even though the sun is pouring in through the clear plastic ceiling, it''s getting filtered and turned into what you''d expect in a hospital. We''re in a corridor and the ground is little more than a dirty canvas covered in boot prints.


    "Last door on the left," says Elena. "Good luck."


    "Will I need it?"


    She shrugs. "I think we all need it. Nothing we''ve been able to do has stopped this... this death zone from expanding."


    "Maybe your boss doesn''t want it stopped."


    "What''s that meant to mean?" she snaps.


    I raise my arms. "I don''t know. Just seems a bit strange that America and the Storm Guards have been defeated by a fog."


    Her face is red. Not fury, not remorse, but something in between. Embarrassment, "It''s not like we haven''t tried! We''ve lost dozens of soldiers! -- not to mention four of our most valuable assets. We even..." Her voice trails off as she realises what she''s about to say.


    "Kidnapped me," I finish for her. "Is that why you joined the bureau? Kidnap. Murder. To just feel powerful? I know that''s what makes a lot of cocks hard around here -- like your boyfriend''s. I saw that grin when he froze my legs. Does he smile like that when he freezes your wrists together in the bedroom?"


    I almost regret saying it. It wasn''t Ellena that tricked me, after all, not really. That was Carlos. She just came to pick us up, following orders. Paid for the beers, too. Although for that, maybe I shouldn''t thank her.


    Still, she was in on it all. There are none alive without some guilt to carry.


    "It''s not like that," she says. "Not with him. Not with me. Look, I don''t have gifts like your kind, but I knew from very early on that I was special; that I could make a difference to the world, even if my contribution was small. I was a smart kid. High IQ. Didn''t take me long to realize that the best thing to do with my brain was to use it to save lives."


    She should have become a doctor, I think. "Well I hope you start saving some soon. Cause right now, looks like you guys are doing jack-shit."


    I begin to walk on, alone, when Elena says, "I am sorry."


    "Yeah. I''m sure."


    "We wanted to get you here without... Without any force, you understand. We wanted you to want to come -- and you for a while you did want to. What I mean is: I''m sorry about the lying and the ice and the handcuffs."


    "Oh, you don''t need to apologize about the handcuffs, Elle," I say, with a wink, using the name I''d heard Carlos give.


    She flinches. "I just wanted to say sorry. And that we''re on the same team."


    "What team''s that, exactly?"


    "We''re both trying to stop people dying."


    Ismother a laugh -- if they put me in that gas cloud, they''ve no idea what''ll happen to me. "You mean, people other than me, right?"


    Her eyebrows furrow and I can almost see the guilt spill out of her. Good.


    I turn and march down the corridor.

 Chapter 8

    The general looks thirty years older than when I last saw him, not the eleven it''s been. His stomach seems to swallow half of the desk that its pressed up against, as if its trying to cut his mouth out of the equation. He always had been an efficient man. His hair''s stark white now -- skipped that whole greying stage by the look of it. Efficient.


    "Samuel." He doesn''t bother to stand, but raises his glasses instead, placing them neatly on his head.


    "Christ, Rupert," I reply. "The years ain''t been so kind, I see."


    He snarls. His way of showing amusement. "Could say the same to you. I always said the drink would kill you and well, it looks like its getting close. Skinny as a sheet of paper. And I''ll be damned if I don''t see a whole regiment of grey hairs cropping up there."


    My hand runs through my shaggy black hair. My still very black hair. I''m not skinny, either -- he''s was just so fat he''s lost all perspective. The desk he''s enveloping is a black plastic, as are the seats either side of it. Too small, for his frame, that brave little chair. There''re a couple of cabinets, also plastic, and not a lot else filling the space. "Nice office, Rupert. I''ve not seen so much plastic in a long time." I pause. "Say, that reminds me, how is Martha these days?"


    His face storms, then the winds escape as a laugh. "You cheeky prick. Not changed a bit, have you?"


    "No. Unlike Martha, I''m guessing."


    He holds up a hand. "As it happens, she downsized her tits, so less plastic than ever. If you discount the new nose. Take a seat."


    I slide down into it, hands in my jean pockets. "I''m going to need something soon, Rupert. Not had a thing since last night and my head is starting to thump."


    He considers then slides a hand into his jacket pocket. "Here. Cuba''s finest." He takes out a penknife, cuts the end off the cigar, then slides it across the table. "Strong enough to clear your head, I should think. Then I''ll get a quack to look at you. Want you fit as a fiddle before we send you on your way."


    On my way. Into the forest that''s seeped in poison fog, he means. Or maybe not -- maybe he means: onto your way into the next life. Enjoy your last Cuban Samuel.


    We''re silent while I light up. Deep inhale. Spiral of smoke. I close my eyes and I''m in a bar playing snooker, and I got two beautiful women in short skirts cheering my every shot.


    "How is it?"


    I open my eyes and the women are gone and in their place is a fat man that wants to send me ''on my way''. Fuck him. "It''s pretty good, actually."


    "They''re the best money can buy."


    I bite the end as I consider saying what I''m thinking. What I''ve been thinking since seeing him. "I hear that you''re a grandfather now."


    He beams. A wide proud smile that I never saw even once when I was dating his daughter. "Well I sure am! Cutest little critter you''ve ever seen."


    "Congratulations."


    "Well thank you, Samuel. Nice to see you handling all this like a man." He pauses "For once."


    "You had no right to hunt me down and drag me here."The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He slams his fat fist onto the table; the plastic legs warp inwards as if they belong to ballet dancers. "I have every right! People are dying, Samuel. Not just civilians, not just soldiers -- you''re kind, too. Even a shit like you must care about that."


    I take a long drag of the cigar and puff out a hollow circle. "You seem stressed. Are you watching your blood pressure?"


    "I had every right to find you," he repeats, a little calmer. "You might have got your ass fired from the Storm Guard, but you''re a United States citizen still, and as such I still command you. And if you refuse orders, you''re going to spend the next however many years you''re alive, in the darkest tightest fucking dungeon I can find. Somewhere that''ll make the black hole of Calcutta look like Kubla Khan''s pleasure dome. Am I understood?"


    "Yeah. I get it. You need me. I don''t need you -- you need me."


    "I feel like I''m repeating myself. Four of your kind are dead. Hundreds of civilians are dead. This... virus, it''s spreading into Oregon and Nevada. It''ll be our people dead next. It''s not about needing you, it''s about you doing what''s right, you understand?"


    "No. To be on the level, I don''t even get what you need me for. Send in some radiation-proof vehicles, or whatever, instead. Drop some men in by plane to where it all started and figure this thing out for yourself. You''re smart and rich and were once thin -- you''ll figure it out."


    He pauses. "We''ve not leaked certain information to the press."


    That gives me a nervous pang. "What information?"


    "It''s not just a virus... It''s an EMP, too, of some kind."


    An eyebrow raises. Impossible. "Electromagnetic pulse? That''s... They don''t exist."


    The old man sighs. "There''s some kind of device that is pumping a type of current through the fog. Electronics, engines, respiratory devices -- nothing lasts more than a few minutes, once inside the fog. Sure as hell can''t get any comms through it, either. So you see, the best we can do right now, is contain the fog. Breeze -- Portia, you might remember her as -- is on the border of Oregon keeping the wind blowing down."


    Breeze? What was with the pretentious aliases that had popped up since I''d left the team. Not that Portia was a much better name. "Oh, I see. It''s spreading into California because you''re blowing it away from America?"


    "It would spread deeper into California no matter what we did! We''re not blowing it all the way down here, you dumb shit -- we''re just trying to keep it away from our borders. Hell, why do you think we''ve set up base here?"


    "Nice views?"


    "We''re in this fucking location to try stopping it spreading further into Cali."


    We let silence take over. Rupert lights his own cigar and we both puff away.


    "I''m not stupid, and neither are you," he says. "No matter how much you pretend to be."


    I think back to Carl in the bar and I''m not so sure.


    "This," he continues, "is man-made. It''s got to be. Someone is generating this poison, and they''ve made damn sure no one can find them in it." Pause. "No one, but you."


    A shiver sails down my spine leaving prickles in its wake. "What are you saying?"


    "Someone wants you to go inside, Samuel. They wanted you to see all this, and they wanted you to react to it. Or else they knew we''d find you and deliver you to them."


    This... It hadn''t even crossed my mind, up to now. And it still didn''t seem likely. Why would anyone go to all this trouble, even if they could create an EMP, and even if they could create a fog that was poisoning a thousand square miles?


    "Why?" I say. "Why would someone want me this bad?"


    "Guess they couldn''t find you. But unlike them, we never lost you."


    "Never lost me? Oh, you fucks."


    "We always had to keep an eye on you, Samuel. Never know when a Storm Born might be needed. And aren''t we glad we were so well prepared, now."


    "What do you want me to do?"


    He leans in, cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. "To find out who the fuck is in the forest that''s causing this. Then, stop them."


    What choice do I have? If it really is an elaborate smoke signal designed to get my attention, it''s worked. And if it is, and if I don''t go in, then more people are going to die. "The Pitt twins. Martha Mustelle. Farell Jameson. I want to know how those Storms died. Why they died."


    He nods. "We''ll get their folders and have you fully briefed before you go in."


    "I want to be left alone, after. No more of this shit. Missions."


    "I can''t make that promise. But... Money I can do. A lot of money, if you''re successful."


    Of course ''if I''m successful''. If I''m not, I''ll be dead. I nod, already seeing myself drinking rum in Cuba, and say, "Better be enough money that I can drown in it. And I want to see your daughter, too, before I leave."


    He pulls the cigar out of his mouth. "I''m not so sure she''ll want to see you."


    "Tough shit."

 Chapter 9

    "Want the radio on?"


    Elena is in the driver''s seat. Her chair''s pulled in so close to the wheel that her legs are pressed up almost to her chest. We''re in a Jeep that reeks of old boots. My oversized rucksack with tent, food, clothes, flair, and all the rest, is sprawled over the backseat.


    "Nah."


    She nods and her fingers tap nervous waves over the wheel. "Good choice. It''s going to be a short ride, so there''s really not that much point. As soon as you get into a song, it''ll be over, you know? So annoying when that happens. I remember as a kid, Dad pulling up to the house in the middle of my favorite tune, and I''d make him just sit there with me, parked up until it finished. Then I''d let him turn the keys and escape." Nervous laugh.


    The air''s electric still. That sensation when your body knows somethin'' bad -- maybe a storm, maybe not -- is about to hit. The trees are pale in the morning light, as if they''ve not quite woken up yet. Their verdant splendor is more of a reluctant mold-green.


    I''d spent the night back at the base. Got briefed, as much as they were willing to tell me. Got a check-up with a doctor who himself looked on the cusp of death, which didn''t seem a great sign.


    Got dinner with Susie, too.


    That had been the worst of it. Like having dinner with the ghost of someone you''d once loved. Not even the ghost, just the trampled on memory of the person.


    She hadn''t changed much physically. Still svelte and tight around the waist, still curved in the other places that mattered. Her hair was a more peroxide blonde than I remembered it, but there ain''t nothing wrong with a woman that dyes. If anything, the gentle crows-feet around her eyes, and the more careful, measured smiles suited her. Mature, but classic. The opposite of what I had become. Juvenile and stale.


    Yeah, she hadn''t changed much physically, but Christ, it didn''t feel like I was catching up with the Susie I knew. Hey Sam, nice to see you again. Have you been well? I have a kid now. I hear you''re going into the fog. That''s neat -- back on the team, like old times. Gee, isn''t the food here terrific, considering the circumstances?


    Susie, the one locked away in my memory vault, was full of life, and what the French call joie de vivre. She was caring, considerate. A skinny dipping sex hound that every man, woman, wanted to just... to just be near. To bathe in her aura and try and take a bit of it home with them.


    Hear you''re going into the fog. That''s neat.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Yeah, neat that I''m going into the fog. To very possibly die. Her voice hadn''t cracked with concern, her hand hadn''t trembled. Eleven years of heartache burning away at me, and she was looking through me wondering if she could get more mash. I ask about the dead storms. Yeah, that''s too bad.


    "You okay?" says Elena, her fingers still rapping away on the wheel.


    "Mmm hmm." I force my mind away from Sue, and watch as the valleys plunge and rise out of the window, like the lines on an EPG, as I hurtle forwards towards fate.


    "You''ve every right to be nervous. I mean, who wouldn''t be, right? Who knows what''s causing all this? Who knows, even, how your body''ll react to it for sure?"


    I give her a stern look. She catches it.


    "Sorry. I''m just... I guess I''m just a little nervous."


    She''s fucking nervous? "About getting so close to the zone?"


    "Yeah. That. And other things. I honestly don''t know how you''re handling it so well."


    Oh, I just squeeze my eyes shut and think of all the ways I''m going to waste my soon-found wealth. Hookers, snooker, Cubans, rum. "I''m just doin'' my best."


    She nods. "I think you''re brave."


    "Uh huh."


    Elena opens her mouth and closes it again. Her fingers tap faster.


    "What is it?" I ask.


    "Huh?"


    "You want to say something, so just say it."


    Her cheeks flush red. "Just that I''m sorry."


    Ah. Guilt. That''s what it is. She''s not going to make much of an agent if she feels guilt like a normal person does. Heck, all she did was try to trick me into coming to the base. How would she survive real assignments if-- Then it dawns. She feels guilty because she thinks I''m going to die. She''s treating this as some kind of confession with a prisoner who is on death row. Well, what she needs is a priest, not a prisoner.


    "You''ve said that already."


    "I know," she says. "I just... Wanted to make sure you knew."


    She wants absolution but she''s looking in the wrong place. I wonder if this is the only sin that she''s feeling remorse over, or if I''m some kind of vessel she''s unloading into. Then she''ll send me sailing into the night, set on fire, soon to sink with all my secrets on board.


    "Anything you want to tell me?" I ask.


    She shakes her head. "Nothing other than what I said. I don''t always like how we have to go about getting the job done."


    "Right."


    We spend the next few minutes in silence, me staring out the window trying to decide how I''ll spend my millions. Her tapping away.


    Something in the Jeep begins to beep.


    "What''s that?"


    "That''s how we know we''re getting close," she says.


    As we crawl forward, off the road and between trees, the pace of the beeping increases, until soon it''s like a heart before it has an attack. BeepBeepBeep.


    Eventually, we pull over.


    Elena looks at me, big eyes, cute mole. "This is as far as I can take you."


    I nod, get out, get my bag from the backseat and sling it over my shoulders. Fucker''s heavy. I''m starting to wonder if Carl didn''t put a few boulders in the bottom just to mess with me.


    Elena points to a hill. "That way," she says. "You should see the haze of the fog once you''re up on it."


    "I''ve got a map, Elena. I''ve got a compass. I''ve been briefed."


    "Right. Yes, of course. Sorry."


    I turn and begin my hike towards the hill. That wild electric feeling still buzzes through my body. I suddenly notice how good I''m feeling.


    Maybe the best I''ve felt in weeks.


    "Good luck," she shouts after me.


    I almost expect a ''and I really am sorry'' to follow it. But it doesn''t come.

 Chapter 10

    Elena had been right to call it a haze. The distant trees, at least from the cap of the hill I''m standing on, look like they''re swaying in agreen-tinted dress. Something almost siren, about the way they dance. Like... like they''re calling to me.


    For a while, I just stand here on the hill, watching the forest shimmer, as if its the planet itself breathing.


    My mind snaps to the Pitt twins, and how they''d been stationed somewhere like this, pulling up hills and mountains out of the earth to try to barrier the spread of the mist.


    How futile it must have been, to try to stop the air itself. Like building a sandy-wall on the beach as a kid, in an attempt to keep your sculpted sandcastle safe -- hoping that wall would be enough to stop the castle being swallowed as the tide came calling. But the sea would lap at the wall as if it had a tongue of acid and all too soon your castle would be reclaimed.


    Was it the hypnotic swaying that pulled the Pitts into it? I''ve got both their dossiers somewhere in my bag, along with the other two dead Storms. I flicked through the files last night -- walls of redacted, mostly -- but there were photos, too. Taken by a secuity camera attached to the single dome-shaped tent they shared. Black and white frames of the twins: their heads turned towards the camera, their eyes black; then they''re looking at each other. Finally, snapshots of them walking -- not running -- towards their death.


    Nothing had lured them, as far as any of us could tell. But here, now, seeing the swaying trees... Well, maybe we''d been wrong.


    They hadn''t made it far into the forest before collapsing, one a little in front of the other.


    There were images of their recovered bodies, too. Their skin peeling away from their bodies as if it had somewhere real important to go. Eyes a bright red from where blood vessels had popped. It was like they''d stared right into the face of God and the vision had been too much for a human to handle.


    I pass a cairn on the way down the hill. A Jenga-pile of flat rocks that reaches up to my thigh. More often you see these things on mountains, than you do a hill. Sometimes they offer guidance to a lost climber. More often, they mark the spot of where something bad happened. Mourners honoring the incident with a pile of slate or granite, as if that would placate the angry mountain.


    I don''t see any shifted earth around this cairn though.


    The grass is thicker at the bottom of the hill, bristly tussocks of green and gold trying to tie my boots as I plod on. I push my way through, tearing grass out as I go.


    This was where I''d seen the fog swelling around trees, from up on the hill. But down here, near the treeline, the haze is harder to see. Thinner and more nuanced, without the long-distance perspective. It''s clear now that these trees were never moving -- and if they ever did move in the future, it would only be when they were felled and sold off to a lumber yard.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I should be apprehensive. But three things stop that feeling dead:


    For one, there''s Susie and how she acted, how she looked and responded to me. Susie, but not Susie, and she''s all over my brain right now and not leaving much room for other thoughts to get in.


    Then there''s the fact my body is feeling the best it''s been in... years. The bag on my back feels lighter with every step, and I''ve twice turned to check there''s no hole in it, that I''m not Hansel-and-Grettling a trail of tent parts after me. It''s like I''ve been eating all those superfoods people talk about -- spinach and beets and all that shit, and not swigging suds and eating grease.


    Then, the third reason is -- and I''m thinking maybe this is something to do with the first reasons -- that I don''t really give a shit about what happens to me. I mean, I don''t think I want to die, but I also don''t know how keen I am to go back to bar crawling and performing tricks for a pint. At least before... At least before, I could remember her how I wanted to. Now she''d wiped her shit-stained shoes all over those memories and I doubted I''d want to smell them again.


    The leaves crunch beneath my boots as I enter the woods, and it takes me a moment to realize what''s strange about that sound: it''s barely summer, yet the leaves that litter the forest floor are dried and dead. There are still leaves on the trees above me... but...


    I reach up and grab a low hanging branch of an oak, yanking it down until I can get at its leaves.


    Dry. They crumble apart as I crush them in my palm.


    And the tree bark itself... Even the oaks are starting to look like birch, the color being sapped out of them, whitening them as if they''d just walked in on their parents fucking.


    I''m not dead yet, I tell myself, as I push deeper in. So that''s good. In fact, I couldn''t feel more alive. Maybe it was being on one last mission. Risking my life again. How sterile and boring the last decade had been. It''s the memories before that, funnily enough -- of being a Storm Guard -- that are either to pull up to the surface. That are more colorful and vibrant.


    The last few years are a sepia, sticky mess. Polaroids I can''t pull apart to look at separately.


    The mist rolls in coils and waves, and the deeper into it I march, the more constant it becomes. Thick and filling my lungs with each breath.


    "Hello poison, my old frienddd," I find myself singing. "It''s good to taste you once againnn."


    What''s wrong with me? Am I suicidal, or do I want to proclaim my love for the wold and everything in it?


    It''s after an hour or so, long after I''m done singing, that I see it.


    Or rather, I hear it. The deep thud thud thud. Like the kid smacking his shoes into my seat on the plane, and how it sent waves reverberating up my body. Only, these vibrations are coming from the ground itself, as the creature tramples towards me.


    I smell it. Rotting and fetid, and it''s bad enough to make me question my own odor.


    The eyes are red, and through the fog, right now, they''re all I can see. And I''m thinking: gee, do those bloodshot eyes belong to one of the Pitt twins? Did they only get one body out of the woods after all?


    But it ain''t a Pitt twin.


    It ain''t alive either.


    But its charging at me with a snarling mouthful of jagged teeth. Hurtling forward, stomping over the leafy earth.


    And if I didn''t already know from the smell, I know when I see its flaking body: this thing that I''m going to need to kill, is already dead.

 Chapter 11

    For a second I''m fifteen again. Deep in training and fast on my way to becoming a Storm Guard. I''m desperate, back then, to one day be as celebrated as Andras and Crisiant -- the Storm Bringers. The first two, the two that had formed the Guards and forced the atomic war to come to a swift end.


    Crisiant had not yet retired. Her black hair only riddled by a single shot of white that trickled down her long fringe like an icy waterfall. Andras had survived the atomic war, but he hadn''t survived bowel cancer. I never got to meet him, but occasionally Crisiant would come visit us, stay with us a few weeks, monitor our training.


    Sometimes in the evenings, after our training was over, she''d speak to us. Tell us stories about what the what-had-been, and the what-would-no-doubt-be.


    "Man will try to make other wars," Crisiant, in so motherly a voice, explained to us. "And you, you''re the generation that will take over from us. That will ensure this peace is prolonged. The future belongs to the Storms in America, in China, in Europe -- the world over." She pauses dramatically and says, "Nature bore us to end its destruction. Countries bend to our will, because our will can crush them. If we say ''no war!'' then there will be no war."


    We -- Storms -- were almost our own country, back then. A global alliance of Storm Borns that would crush any country looking for war. Even if that country was where we were born, if that was the price of peace.


    "She''s awesome, right?" says Susie, sometime after, her eyes as bright as the white streak of Crisiant''s hair. We''re in a room with four sofas, but its just the two of us and a bottle of vodka that we pass back and forth between swigs.


    "She can make the sky rain fire," I say. "Yeah, she''s pretty cool."


    Susie rolls her eyes. "I don''t mean that. I mean her idealism! You know: principles. It''s not what she can do, it''s what she chooses not to do."


    "Oh. Sure. Yeah, I guess I can see that, too. Sort of."


    She bites her lip and smiles.


    Then in comes her future husband. He sinks down on the sofa next to her.


    "Hi pretty lady," Jonas says.


    "Drink?" she offers.


    "I''ll pass," Jonas replies, his germanic accent still strong back then. "I like to keep my brain clear and my liver functional."This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "That''s what makes you so fun," I quip, and I''m thrilled to see Susie trying to cover up a grin.


    And it''s not like me and Susie were dating -- we wouldn''t be for another five years. But as I watch him hold out his hand and see the big brown seed sitting on his palm, I already feel a pain in my heart.


    "For you," he says.


    Susie frowns, confused. Then the frown melts away into joy, her eyes widening, as the seed grows. As it sprouts green, as it elongates and thickens, as he has to hold it in both hands and avoid the thorns. Then more stems.


    In only a few seconds, the first rose blossoms.


    I get up to leave; Susie''s eyes are firm on the flowers, and there''s not a glance to spare.


    Figures she''d marry him, I think, as the elk rips through the woods and its antlers, flat and dull -- lucky for me -- bash like hammers into my chest and send me flying into a tree. Only the deep bag on my back stops my head from hitting the wood.


    Nice. I let Susie creep into my mind when I''m being attacked by an elk with no fur, with skin hanging off it, and with chunks of meat literally bitten out of its sides so much so that I can see its ribs. Do you really want to die?


    Maybe her dad''s right. Maybe the drink really has rotted my mind, ''cause there was a time, back when I was a Storm Guard, that I''d have actually moved out the fucking path of a charging undead animal.


    The elk is stomping its front legs heavily into the mud, as it gets ready to come at me a second time. No breath pumped out of its nostrils, no heavy breathing.


    I shrug the rucksack off my back and ignore the pain that''s surged up around my chest. I''ll see to the bruising later. If I live.


    My Colt is in the bag''s side pocket; I snatch it as the elk charges.


    I roll.


    An antler snaps as the creature hurtles into the tree.


    But its not even phased. It turns, opens its mouth wide to show half of a silvery tongue somewhere behind those dagger-like teeth.


    I fire two shots straight into its head before it can snap at me.


    No blood comes out the other side; just skin and meat.The creature doesn''t seem to notice.


    "Well, fuck."


    Its jaws come for my thigh; I stick my boot into its mouth instead and hear a couple of teeth crack.


    The beast is wild. It rears up and then sends its front hooves down onto my chest. I hear myself scream as its me that cracks this time.


    "I''m not going to be killed by a fucking elk!" I inform it. Then, taking in as deep a breath as my battered chest allows, I suck in the air around me. The poisoned air.


    And despite the pain, my body feels alive. Crackling with that storm energy I''ve been sensing.


    The elk has me pinned by my chest; it lowers its jaw to my neck and means to snap.


    But I grab its face in my hands. Its cheeks. And I press inwards.


    My hands are pulsing with green fire. They push into its skin, melting its face away. Its eyes give me a desperate look that''s something like surprise, then they roll out of its disintegrating skull and plop onto the earth next to me.


    I let go.


    The elk takes a single step back, almost headless now, its brain half-melted and visible to the world.


    It tries to buck onto its rear legs.


    And for a moment, it looks like it''ll manage.


    It''s in the air, hanging.


    Then, finally, instead of falling back down onto me, it collapses to its side, unmoving.

 Chapter 12

    The mist crawls over the elk''s corpse, kindly hiding its half melted-brain from my view, as I strap bandages around my chest. The pain''s sharp and my skin''s red and purple and swollen. I pull the dressings tight and then clamber back to my feet.


    What the fuck had happened to that elk?


    It had died. Then, sometime later, I''d killed it again. But it''s the middle bit that''s concerning me. There''s something in this plague-cloud-shit that brought the animal back to life again.


    Back. To. Life.


    And what the fuck had happened to me, for that matter? My hands are still half-numb from the... fire? Acid? Whatever it was that had leaked out of me, I hadn''t meant for it to happen. I rack my brain, trying to think if I''d ever, maybe as a kid, cast my poison out of somewhere other than my mouth.


    My ass, occasionally, especially after a curry -- but that was usually a less harmful gas.


    I stare at my hands and want to ask them what they did, but I doubt they''d give me an answer.


    The rucksack is violently uncomfortable strapped around my chest and belly. Feels like knives stabbing into me. Maybe I should set up my tent, camp around here for the night.


    No.


    I just want to get as far away from those putrid animal remains as I can. Don''t fancy rolling over onto an eyeball.


    Compass in one hand, map -- scrawled with pen marks during my briefing -- in the other, I get back to the hike.


    Ok. Long walk ahead. Seems a good time to reassess my situation. I''ll make a mental list of how I''m doing, to cheer myself up a little. A good list and a bad list.


    Bad: I''m in cloud of plague gas that kills anything that enters.


    Good: It doesn''t kill me. Or at least, it hasn''t yet.


    Good: And like any other poison, I seem to be able to ingest it, to concentrate it.


    Bad: I''m not so sure I can control how the concentrated plague poison escapes me.


    Bad: Something in this cloud can bring dead animals back to life. And one-out-of-one of those animals wanted me dead along with it. It''s not a huge sample size to go off, I''ll admit, but it''s still a worrying result.


    Good: Most animals seem to have had the sense to leave the forest before the poison killed them.


    Good: My rucksack''s straps aren''t like knives diggin'' into me no more.


    Bad: Now they''re like fucking sanders carving away at me with each step.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Okay, that''s enough listing. It''s not doing me any favors -- I''m clearly not in a positive place right now. Mind is sabotaging me, just like how it tried to get me killed by the Elk, by making me think of Susie and her boyfriend -- husband -- to distract me.


    Rum. Whores. Snooker. Cubans.


    Rum. Whores. Snooker. Cubans.


    I keep my mind busy with thoughts of the dirty nights and drunken days ahead, of that big paycheck I''ll be getting for all this. Of the fame, too. If I can find out what''s causing this. Hell, if I can stop it, then maybe California will vote me in for fucking president. Might be a shithole, but I''d be a big shit in a small hole, if I stuck around.


    Couple hours later, body still protesting each step, I make it up the side of a small hillock and onto a plateau that only has a smattering of small, half-dead trees. They''re a starker white here than the forest below, almost pure, with only a few black leaves still clinging on to the branches.


    The hill isn''t tall enough to get a good view from, but I can see the shimmering dancing of the fog again.


    I unstrap my bag and let it fall onto the ground, then I crumple down next to it. I strip my jacket and shirt and notice my bandages are red and in need of changing.


    I attend my wounds, cleaning them first with an antiseptic that smells as fierce as it feels on my skin, then strapping on new bandages. After that, I get my tent set up. No domed-wonder for me, just a one-man instant pop-up job. Big enough for me to curl up inside and get some sleep, once I''m ready.


    But I''m not ready just yet. The sun''s barely setting. I take the opportunity to look for firewood. Don''t need the heat of a fire -- it''s warm and muggy and I doubt it''ll get much colder in the night -- but I figure that I''ll cook my dinner the old fashioned way. Something I''ve not done since training to be a Storm Guard.


    Always had to be prepared, back then.


    I snap a few low hanging branches off a big ol'' maple. They come away too easily. But right now, deadwood is exactly what I want. And it''s not rotting, only dead, so that''s good news.


    The fire''s soon crackling in front of the tent, and I wonder if they can see the smoke back in camp. I doubt it, it''s probably mingled in with the haze of the gas, and near impossible to differentiate from.


    My can of beans slops into a small pan. I set up a few sticks to hold it over the fire, and I wait. And even though this whole place is jus'' ''bout dead, I''m feeling good again. Not my chest, not my ribs, but my mind.


    I eat the beans and pop a few painkillers.


    Then, for a while, I let myself daydream about being a kid, about being sent out into forests and woods and having to survive a night without an adult and having to navigate our way back to the base by either using the sun or the stars.


    We''d have to go out in pairs, dropped somewhere random, and then it was meant to be a race back to camp.


    But when me and Susie were put together, we''d get ourselves lost on purpose.


    We''d spend a night like this under the warmth of the summer sky, just talking.


    And shit, I felt good about being alive, back then. Not that I ever stopped to think about how good I felt. Because, when you''re young, you don''t think those kinds of feeling are goin'' to go away. At least, not for good.


    There''s always time, when you''re young, to make more of those feelings.


    I find myself asking why I even left the Storms, but I cut that line of thought off something quick.


    They say I was fired, anyway.


    The sun falls and the stars twinkle like sugar in the sky. The moon''s curved arm-bone is out, and it''s the same white as the few trees around my tent.


    I slide into my green cotton tent and then into my sleeping bag, and I''m almost content as I drift off.


    The crunching of leaves awakens me.


    I don''t sit up, just open my eyes and listen.


    It''s not an elk. The steps are too fragile, too cautious.


    They''re purposeful, that''s what they are.


    I can''t have been out for long, as the fire''s still crackling outside, the embers still burning and lighting up a patch of ground that I can just make out through the thin fabric of the tent.


    I watch, half-paralyzed, as the figure -- a silhouette, through the tent''s skin -- approaches the fire.


    The shadow of a person.


    A person with a long twisted beak.

 Chapter 13

    The beak is hanging down from a long grey tree branch, a little way behind the fire.


    There had been a figure out here, I swear to God that I ain''t going full crazy. But he must''ve slipped into the shadows before I''d even fully unzipped my tent.


    I think about calling out: Hey, guy who was somehow alive inside the poison zone and hung this weird fucking thing on a tree outside my tent, how''re you doing? Want to come over and share a can of beans? Maybe we can shoot the breeze together for a little and then see if we can''t both squeeze into the tent.


    But I don''t say shit.


    There''s an uneasy feeling looming over the campsite and it''s enough to make me hold my tongue. And the air... even by the fire, it feels cold.


    Wrong time of year for cold.


    It crosses my mind, although I try not to let the thought stay too long, that the person might not be a person, in the same way the elk hadn''t been an elk. It had once been an elk, sure. But it was something else by the time it had found me. Something violent and rotting and wanting me dead.


    So instead, I get my Colt, and I wait silent and still, and I just listen. But all I can hear is the occasional crackling of embers as they burn up the last few twigs.


    No leaves being crushed underfoot, not as far as I can hear.


    No heavy breathing somewhere in the trees. Although, whether that''s good or bad, I don''t know. Breath means living.


    Eventually, I give up waiting. I take the beak from off the branch and shine my torch onto it.


    It''s a long tube made of leaves, narrow and closed off at one end, hollow and wide at the other. Orange, brown, and black leaves all pressed hard together. Sticky with residue. They''re on a careful, delicate framework of twigs -- long ones run down its length, little ones prop it open into its cone-shape.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Whether it''s meant to or not, it reminds me of my dream from a couple of nights ago. Being a baby in a dying town and a man in a plague doctor''s mask picking me up and taking me away.


    But that''s not how it had happened.


    The plague had been real, yes. But even then, there had only been thirty or so dead, before the rest of the town was evacuated. Susie''s adoptive father, Rupert, a young idealist himself at the time, had been working on behalf of both the US government and the Storm Guards -- long before he''d pressured the two organizations into merging as the bureau.


    It had been Rupert and his team that had found me.


    They chased every fucking disaster, natural or not, back then. Hoping to be the first to find and claim a Storm Born, like we were some ancient treasure to be dug up, or some piece of land to stick a flag into.


    So why was the dream different to what I know happened? What was my mind trying to tell me?


    I don''t have a fucking clue, but my heart doesn''t like it. The way it''s racing, it''ll wear itself out before the sun rises.


    Someone''s either been watching me and following me. Or has just been waiting for me. Waiting until I set up camp. Waiting until I fell asleep.


    But why didn''t they just talk to me? If that''s what they wanted to do. Or kill me.


    Try to kill me.


    Why just leave me this thing?


    Almost on queue, something small rolls out of the beak and drops softly onto the ground.


    It takes me a few minutes, riffling through dead leaves under my torchlight before I find it.


    A marble.


    A single round little worthless marble. Must have been stuffed into the tight pointed end inside the beak.


    As if my day wasn''t weird enough, I''m now holding a marble that looks like a tiny universe between two fingers, shining my torch on it as if it was the sun.


    For a while, I sit by the fire, looking at it. Wondering why the fuck there was a beak with a marble in it left for me, the way that a cat might leave a half-eaten rat for an owner.


    I swap to the beak, turning it over in my hands as if it might hold a clue to who made it.


    Then I make a decision. Might regret it, but I know it''s the only way I''ll get any sleep tonight.


    I toss the beak into the fire and watch it slowly turn black, then crumble to soot, breezing away into the night.


    The marble though... Can''t say why -- maybe I just want to see it in the daylight -- but I decide to pocket it.


    Couple of hours must have passed now since I left my tent, and seeing as nothing else has happened, I decide I''ll try to get a few hours more sleep.

 Chapter 14

    The land around me is drained of life. The trees are hunched bones, and look as ancient as the world itself; the breeze touches them, bites at them and takes out motes of white dust that weep away into the air. Their bark is rotten beyond rotting.


    The ground under my leather boots is cracked. Spidery fissures in the dry earth, that widen as I go on, that sometimes become dark pits and deep holes. That become rivens in the ground large enough to swallow me. I tread real careful and slow, as the fog is heavy and good at disguising anything under it. Whisps of mist have given way to a constant breath of green: a heavy shawl that covers the forest and hides the holes beneath me.


    There is a stream to my side. Was a stream. Now, like the rest of the forest, it is dead. The water is a black sludge that barely moves, but bubbles like lava and stinks like raw-sewage. I had been looking for the stream for hours, a tiny pen mark on my map, as following it will lead me most of the way to the center of the plague -- and perhaps to its cause.


    I follow its serpentine path that winds me deeper into the fog.


    Deeper into the dead forest.


    Sometimes I think I see eyes in the mist. Distant, half-hidden behind trees. Like red fireflies, or the distant embers of cigarettes.


    The stars though, somewhere above me, I never see. Even in the day time, the sun rarely makes it through the black canopy, or else the fog itself.


    The trees might be dead, but shrubs with razor-like needles and scale-like foliage are in abundance, and, along with the cracked open ground, slow my progress.


    Sometimes I feel the warmth of blood trickle down my legs as they''re pricked open, and sometimes -- for just a little -- that pain takes my mind off the suffocating hurt of my cracked ribs that presses my heart each time I breathe.


    It''s been a day, a night, and a day again, since I found the mask swaying from the tree, lolling in the wind, outside of my tent.


    All that time following a compass, alone in a dead forest.


    I am watched. I know that much -- can sense that much.


    The forest is getting to me, ''cause it''s not just those eyes I''m seeing.


    The Colt, no matter how often I pack it into my bag and zip up the pocket, no matter if I fucking tie the pocket up with rope just to make sure, has this way of finding its way back into my sweating palm a few minutes later. And I''ll just see it there and think: Oh, it''s you. You''re back. Well, you can stay a few minutes, I guess, ''cause I do like how you feel on my skin. And who knows what''s out here, after all...If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    But I don''t know if I''m doing it for safety -- the bullets never much bothered that elk. So I think, maybe, I''m holding that gun for some other reason, a reason that I won''t let my conscious mind settle on. And when those thoughts try to break through, I bury it back inside my bag.


    I think back on that night in the woods with Susie. I find my mind wandering back to her a lot at the moment. It''s like she''s died and I''m having some kind of wake for her, and I know that''s wrong but I can''t help it.


    How old would we been? Seventeen? I think that''s when we started dating.


    Blindfolded and dumped into the woods. Tent, compass, food... Not so unlike this.


    It had been Susie who''d snuck the flask into her pack. It wasn''t for me; I''d been provided needles to poke into my skin to ''keep me healthy''.


    I''d almost snapped at her, as she''d walked south when we needed to go west.


    "Sue, you even looking at the fucking map?"


    "No." She''s turned around, her back to me as she walks away, so I can''t see the grin she''s hiding.


    "Then why are you pretending to look at it? Come on, it''s this way."


    "There''s something over here I want to show you."


    I just want to get back to base first. Show them that I''m not some poison injecting freak show who happens to be Storm Born, but someone who deserves their place on the team.


    I cared, back then, what people thought. So I''m fairly fired up by the time I reach her.


    Then her wrap around me and her lips close in and all I can think to say is, "Are you wearing perfume? For a mission? Why would you--"


    "It''s just a practice mission," she says, a bit salacious, as she leans in and kisses me, and I feel the warmth of the world on my tongue.


    She tastes of vodka and sugar.


    The electricity on my skin in that moment was a different feeling altogether to what this fog is sending through me.


    Now, as the mist swims around me -- or as I swim through it -- my arms are shaking, like something getting too much current and about to overload. The skin on my arms and hands is turnin'' yellow like jaundice, and I''m glad I can''t see my face right now.


    Another slow hour passes before I hear it.


    Crying.


    A baby crying.


    I swear to God that''s what the sound is like.


    I ditch my bag and scramble through the undergrowth, forgetting my compass, forgetting my map, and just following the screaming.


    The land is black beneath the baby. Black and cracked, the fissures running towards her like arrows. There are no trees, and it feels more like a clearing in a graveyard than in a forest.


    She''s wrapped in a white blanket.


    Scrawled into the black earth, thick and unsure, are the words:


    "If you let them take her, she''ll die."


    Punctuating ''die'' like an exclamation point, a long stick has been thrust into the ground beneath the ''e''.


    On it hangs something familiar, that makes my heart sick.


    A long beak made out of twigs and leaves.


    The baby just lying there by its side.


    And I know that I''ve found the first Storm Born in twenty years.


    No.


    Not found.


    Been led to.


    ''Cause someone''s been here. Been looking after her.


    A shiver, like melting ice, trickles down my spine.

 Chapter 15

    I squeeze my eyes tight as the fire roars in front of me, and let myself imagine everything good I''ve got waiting ahead of me.


    Rum. Whores. Snooker. Cubans.


    But the sound of the baby crying melts the good times right away.


    Diapers. Milk. Rocking. Burping.


    I''ve only had a single day of fatherhood thrust upon me -- but it''s already more than enough.


    Whoever had led me to the baby had been kind enough to provide a second bag for me to carry back. A little zipped-up satchel, insulated with silver foil. Basic baby supplies inside: bottles of milk, a pink-striped onesie (that she''s now wearing), a blue striped-onesie (as if whoever packed it wasn''t even sure about her gender), a towel, and noticeably, not one fucking pacifier.


    Rum. Whores.


    Rocking. Burping.


    "What is it now? You want milk?"


    I get up, grab a bottle, and jab it into her mouth -- but she pulls her head back and wails.


    "Fine," I shout over her cryin''. "Go hungry. Think I care? Cause I got meat here, and I got teeth, and I ain''t going hungry myself."


    My legs are burning and my ribs screaming. Lugging one huge bag had been bad enough, but a day''s trek with a baby in my arms, propped up against my shoulder, and an extra bag hanging off my rucksack, and I''m all but ready to lay down and never get up again.


    The thick mist followed us for a while, but it started to ease up a little as we walked. As I walked, that is -- and she kicked at my ribs and wailed in my ears.


    And all the while, that electric feeling in the air had been intensifying. Becoming more violent. Her skin against mine would send out sporadic shocks like static; little jolts of air that would singe and smoke me.


    And my own skin... That was changing, too, since I''d found her. The yellow that it had been turning, was now darkening, becoming brown... a burnt-orange and... it was starting to look like the leaves on the dead trees.


    If you let them take her, she''ll die.


    That scrawled note in the dirt was meant for me, I''m sure of it. Someone knew that I would be sent into the poisoned zone. Knew that I''d find the child and see their message. Then, there had been the two beaks: one hung by my tent, the other by her side.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    No doubt about it. I was meant to find her.


    If you let them take her, she''ll die.


    If I let who take her? Right now, as her wailing thumps away at my tired brain, I''m willing to let anyonehave her, just as long as I get some peace.


    I really didn''t appreciate the journey into the forest enough. Heck, the elk was almost better company.


    If you let them take her, she''ll die.


    Does it mean... Nah, can''t mean the bureau. Half the reason they exist it to find Storm Borns. To recruit them and train them and--


    "How are you getting louder?!" I say to her, angrier than I''m proud of.


    She stops crying for a moment, but it''s only from surprise, as she''s ballin'' as loud as ever again straight after.


    I let out a long breath, then pick her up and rock her against my shoulder. "Okay, shh, I''m sorry. I shouldn''t have yelled. I''m just not used to this, you know?" I tap her head gently, her short quiff of blonde hair. "Usually there are a whole damn host of specialists to look after Storm Borns like you. Or else, a mother to look after a baby. And I''m not neither."


    I think back to my own childhood, trying to remember nursery-rhymes used to lull me. But my childhood was cold and clinical and I didn''t get much of that stuff.


    "Hush little baby don''t you cry, Sammy gonna sing you a lullaby. La la la, la dadada, Sammy gonna sing you a lulla-byy."


    She''s still crying, but maybe not as loud. I put her back down next to the tent flap and grab the bottle of milk again. It''s cold, and I remember something about babies liking it warm, so I hold it above the fire for a little. High above it, so my hand doesn''t burn too bad.


    There had been no marble in the second beak, but it had burned up just as well as the first.


    If you let them take her, she''ll die.


    No. She might have a life like mine... Might not know many nursery-rhymes by the time she''s my age, but that''s the worst that will happen. Heck, best place for her is with them. So, does the message mean someone else is going to try to take her?


    I eye the trees uneasily, but there''s nothing much to see. Just the same shrubs and shadows and rotting land as I''ve had stare at me the last handful of days.


    The plastic bottle feels warm against my face. Not too hot, I don''t think. But I also don''t know for sure.


    The baby sucks at the milk all the same, and I find I''m actually kinda proud of myself. First time in years, maybe, that I''ve felt like this.


    "So what do you do?" I ask her. "You create these clouds, or were you just born in them? You the one bringing dead animals back into the world? Cause that''s a pretty morbid gift to have."


    She drinks the milk, content, her blue eyes wandering up to mine, then back down to the bottle.


    "Who''s been looking after you, huh? Huh? Answer me! You''re gonna give me a name or you''re gonna face my wrath. Understand??"


    I find myself tickling her and she''s laughing and spitting out milk, then I''m laughing too. And I''m wonderin'' if maybe me and Susie had argued about nothin'' all that time ago.


    Then, a deafening explosion.


    Somewhere north of here. Fire and smoke tangle together and stream high into the sky, bright and thick enough to see even through the fog.


    The baby is crying again. She''s scared, and I guess I am too, but I take her and rock her, and eventually, she''s quiet and I''m just standing and watching something distant burning away.


    It''s not the direction I''m going, so I feel good about that.


    But it''s the way I had been going. Somewhere pretty near where I''d just been.


    Where she''d just been.

 Chapter 16

    I''m half asleep outside the tent, baby peaceful inside of it, when I see the leering red eyes of a second elk.


    Its hooves grind against the earth as it readies to charge, and I''m thinking that if it''s not careful it''s going to trample over the tent, over a baby.


    And my body is glowing like a green star. Pulsing with energy. I''ve never felt like this. I''m sick and yet I''m the healthiest I''ve ever been.


    Rage swells inside me, and it mixes with the poisons I''m breathing, and together they become a new, terrible concoction. This elk is already dead. Undead. It had its shot at life, and it fucking failed. So if it thinks it''s killing a baby now -- that it''s going to stop another life short, just ''cause it lost the game of life, then it''s got another thing coming.


    The elk has only made it half-way from the trees to the tent, when it explodes.


    Strings of rotting burning meat fall around me like confetti.


    My body itself steams and simmers, my hands numb, the glow of my skin dimming as if water''s been thrown on a fire.


    I collapse onto the ground, chest heaving as I pant, barely noticing the pain of my cracked sternum.


    Somehow, I''d projected a beam of toxins -- of more than that, of concentrated radiation or something -- at the animal. And unlike me, the elk couldn''t handle it.


    Boom.


    My hands are becoming black. No, not just my hands, my skin. It''s gone from yellow to brown, to... grey. A darkening grey. And it''s flaking. As I run a hand down my arm, tiny flakes of black skin float away like dandruff.


    What the fuck is happening to me?


    And I sort of know, but not really. The baby. The little girl in the tent. Whatever she was emitting into the forest, whatever she was doing, I''ve been absorbing it. Like drinking water straight from the source.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    That''s all well and good, and maybe the kid will be safe to take back to base, thanks to me. But... I''m not sure how much more my body can handle.


    I''m tired. Spent. That feeling like you''ve fucked for an hour straight and then rolled over onto the other side of the bed, and you want to just sleep for a week.


    The ground is hard beneath my head and I should grab a blanket to soften it, but... I don''t have the energy.


    I just wanna sleep.


    Another day and another night before we''re back. Before we''re out of the tree line near where Elena had dropped me off.


    Wearily, I force myself up the hill. Somewhere to my side is the cairn I''d passed a long while ago, but I don''t stop to find it. I push my burning thighs until I get us to the top.


    No sign of Elena.


    No sign of anyone.


    If they were monitoring me, they didn''t do a great job. Either that or they just didn''t want to pick me up.


    "Looks like we''ve got a bit more walking ahead of us," I say with a faux-joviality to the baby. She''s asleep; tied around my chest now, held in a makeshift carrier created from tent-poles and torn up fabrics.


    "Jesus holy fuck Mary," says Carlos. An understatement, I think.


    He''s the first to see me, as I stagger towards the camp.


    For his part, he runs out and looks like he''s going to help. But then he freezes, looking between me and the baby.


    "What... What happened to you?" he asks, his face pale.


    And I remember something about my skin. Black and translucent enough to see the veins pumping away behind it. And in places, its peeling off me like plaster from a damp wall.


    "The bag," I mumble. "Get it off me."


    He takes a long look at the baby, drinking her in. Then, "Right. Sure. Sorry." He unclips it from my chest and slips the straps off my shoulders.


    He winces as he puts it on. Looks at me and I can see he wants to say: how the fuck did you carry this all that way? And a baby?!


    But he says nothing, embarrassed.


    Doubt he ever thought he''d see me again.


    "Is it a..." he starts. Runs a hand through that slick hair. "A Storm?"


    "She." My voice is ragged and it hurts to speak, like every word I''m gulping down broken glass. "Not an it. A she."


    More agents pour out of the tents. Military personnel, too.


    Someone takes the baby from me, and even in my half-dead -- maybe more than half -- state, I''m reluctant to let them. But the truth is, I just don''t have the energy to stop them.


    I think I see Elena, before I pass out.


    But I don''t see Susie anywhere.


    The last thing I hear before the blackness takes me is the wind carrying a whisper.


    If you let them take her, she''ll die.


    Too late, I think.


    Too late.

 Chapter 17

    One shot.


    If I miss, it''s all fucking over.


    I feel their eyes boring into me. All of them watching. The whole room is hushed as if waiting for an explosion -- and they know there ain''t no point running from the flames. Too late for that. So instead, they''re just going to watch it happen and enjoy the carnage.


    Deep breath. Concentrate. Clear my mind.


    "You can do it, babe!"


    Shut up, sweetie. Daddy needs some quiet right now.


    I pull my arm back, keep the stick steady in the other hand. Hunch my back until I''m almost level with the table.


    Mike has set me up rotten here. I''m going to have pull off a fucking miracle.


    My arm thrusts forward like a controlled punch. The stick hits the white just perfect. White hits the table; ball ricochets off green velvet. It clacks loud as it hits the black.


    My heart skips as the black rolls, rolls, rolls, slowly, towards the corner hole.


    And everyone in the bar believes, just for a moment, that I''m going to pull it off.


    I believe it, even. And for a second, as black falls into the pocket, I think I''ve fucking done it!


    But I didn''t keep my eye on the white, and it''s heading with a lazy inevitability towards the opposite pocket.


    As it sinks, so does my heart.


    "Shit."


    "Ouch. Hard luck, Sammy boy." Mike smacks my back and puffs on the cheap cigar he seems to keep permanently between his teeth as if glued there. "Five hundred dollars, if you please."


    "Oh, poor baby," says Shelly, but I ain''t even certain she knows what happened. Still, she''s smart enough to work out from my face that I''m not happy.


    "Yeah. I''d say well done, Mike, but this table is as crooked as you are." Even so, I take out my wallet and skim some notes out onto Mike''s palm. The money is nothing to me, and that''s the funny thing ''bout money -- it was nothing to me when I didn''t have any, and it''s nothing to me now that my bank account is bulging. But my pride, now that does matter. That always matters. Because it''s all I''ve ever had.


    "Same time tomorrow?" Mike asks.


    He knows my grunt is a: ''Yeah, you fuck. I''ll see you then and I''ll be getting my money back.'' That''s how it goes; we''ve seemed to take it in turns to win each night, ever since we started two weeks ago, back when I first stumbled into this little pit beneath the ground. O''Reilly''s. Carpet and wallpaper are infused with the stink of beer and piss and failure, and I kind of feel at home here. It''s a hidden jewel in Sacramento''s nightlife. It doesn''t suffer from what too many bars above ground here do: lack of smoke (where''s the friggin'' ambiance?), harsh white lights that make you think you''re drinking in a hospital waiting room, and filled at least a dozen douchebags. Down here, there''s only one, and he''s taken my cash and is heading to the gents.


    "Don''''t worry, you''ll get him tomorrow baby. He just got real lucky." Shelly''s not wearing much more than a swimsuit and she''s sticking her chest out at me like she''s some kind of prize hen. She leans forward and whispers in my ear, "I know something that''ll take a load off your mind." She squeezes my balls. "And a load out of here, too."


    I''m not in the mood right now and I could be more tactful, but I say, "You''re not on the clock, right now, are ya? Cause you''re sure acting like you are and it''s got me nervous as my wallet''s already light."


    It takes her a moment, but then the flash of red on her cheeks -- like lightning blowing up some clouds close to sunset. "I''m not a fucking whore, Sammy. Might have been once, but you know I ain''t no more."If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    My eyes roam her body. "If you''re not a whore, then how about not dressing like one?"


    Her palm turns my cheek red and numb. I''m aware of distant laughter as Shelly grabs her jacket from a chair, says, "Fuck you, Sammy. Like you don''t walk around like a whore yourself, in my little white panties, when you think I''m fast asleep."


    Then she''s walking us the stairs and the guys are keeled over with laughter.


    "She''s making that shit up," I tell ''em, but no one believes me.


    I''m half tempted to run up the stairs and tell Shelly I''m sorry, but that just ain''t me. And truth is I just don''t care about her enough to do so. Instead, I decide to get my glass refilled.


    "I''ll get you this one, Sammy," says Mike, sliding up on the barstool next to me.


    "I''ll get my own."


    "Oh, but I can afford it. Come into some money recently, don''t you know."


    "You should probably invest it," I say. "Cause you ain''t getting no more. Not from me. And I doubt any fucker''s stupid enough to actually pay you a wage."


    He grins, "Damn, you are in a bad mood tonight."


    He''s right, and I know it. Can''t even put my finger on why I feel like this, but I know it started long before I lost the snooker. Just a feeling that began a few days ago as a tiny seed of unease, deep in my belly, but once it got rooted, it grew and grew and is now blossoming into something thorny, that''s prickling my chest and my brain.


    "Hey, don''t I know you from somewhere?"


    I turn to see a young guy standing behind me, wearing a heavy leather jacket, his hair''s pulled back into a ponytail. "Maybe. But I don''t know you." I turn back to the bar, but the kid continues.


    "Yeah! I do know you!" I can hear the excitement in his tone and it''s like spears being shoved down my ears. "You were on TV a few weeks back. On Letterman, right? A fucking Storm Born!"


    I wish I''d been on Letterman. No, that''s not true. Just wish I hadn''t been on any show at all. Fame got to my head for a little while, and I became a moth chasing its bright light. "Leno," I correct him.


    "That was it! Yeah, Leno, that new guy. Really made me miss Carson. But uh...You were..." He clicks his fingers as he''s trying to remember what I was doing on it.


    Mike turns around, whiskey in his hand, and joins us. Great.


    "Sammy here is a real hero. Remember that forest fire a few months back, up north? That was Sammy that pissed it out. But he got too close to the heat and that''s why his face looks like five other faces stitched together."


    "Poison fog," I correct him. Seem to be correcting everyone today. Maybe I''ll just go get myself an honest job at a kindergarten.


    "That was it!" The new guy slaps my back. "Yeah! That was why your face was so messed up, I remember. Hey, you''re looking a lot better, by the way, despite what your friend says." He chuckles. "I remember now, I remember thinking you looked like something my wife might have cooked up."


    "Must be a bad cook," says Mike.


    "Terrible," he laments. "Can''t even make a sandwich without burning it. But, yeah, thanks for what you did and everything. You know, a lot of my friends think you Storms are just a bunch of overprivileged -- well, I won''t repeat that language, but suffice it to say, they''re not your biggest fans. Waste of taxpayer money and all that."


    That''s a sentiment that''s grown from a whisper to a shout over the last ten years. Not been much of a need for the Storm Guards recently I guess. And if they''re out of public view, then the public think they''re not doing anything and probably not worth their money. And maybe they''re right.


    "And what do you think?" I ask.


    "You sucked the poison straight out of the earth, right? That''s what you said on Letterman."


    "Leno."


    "Right. Well, whatever. You did something good and everyone knows about it. Made me reconsider my view, to be honest. Maybe it''s good to have you guys around, just in case."


    "Stick around and get to know this fella," Mike tells him, "and you''ll change your mind about them all over again."


    Except I''m not even part of the Guards. They just paid me a shit-ton of money to come back for one last mission, to find a baby, to bring it back to them, to not tell anyone about the baby. ''We want to run a few tests on the child, before we announce to the world that we''ve found the first Storm Born in twenty years. You can understand that, can''t you Samuel? We''ll double what we promised you, if you sign this and this and this. It''s just for a few weeks when we run the tests. You know it makes sense. She might be good publicity for us, but... If we announce her arrival right now, well, she''s already killed hundreds of people, Samuel. We need to be smart about this.''


    And I did understand. Or at least, I understood enough that I wanted to get the fuck away from all of them. The general, Susie... That baby that just made me feel like someone I wasn''t meant to be.


    So I cashed myself out and left the casino.


    I try not to dwell on my thoughts too often. Because somewhere inside me, a thought that I can''t quite mute, keeps resurfacing.


    It''s just for a few weeks, while we run the tests.


    That was almost four months ago. Why haven''t they announced anything yet?


    Then right on queue, the barman flicks the TV over to a news channel.

 Chapter 18

    There''s a chunky yellow box at the bottom of the TV screen with white writing in it, pronouncing: Storm Guard Disbanded


    Instead of thinking about the implications like I should be, I''m just looking at the pretty female reporter standing outside the tall concrete box I''d called home for those few years. Thirty stories tall, five-hundred government agents working inside of it, and it was where I lived when I was training. We all did, until we were sixteen. We slept below ground and trained below ground, and it was dark and grimy and cold, and I wonder if it''s why I like shitholes like this bar quite as much as I do. The concrete building was like a giant tombstone above us, as if pronouncing the death of our childhoods to the city. Buried here... The latest recruits for the Storm Guards. RIP.


    The reporter is young, and the bar''s gone silent but I ask the barman to turn the TV up anyway, ''cause I want her voice to deafen my thoughts.


    "... And unfortunately, there just aren''t enough of them left -- in America, or globally -- for them to be an effective deterrent any longer. And if they''re not a deterrent against Atomic War, then really, and this is the question America has been wrestling with for a long time now: what''s the point in them? Millions of taxpayer dollars are sunk into the building behind me annually, and people have been asking: what are they getting out of it? And what have they been getting for their money, Bill?


    The screen flicks to a man sitting on a sofa in a studio, wearing a hot air balloon tie and a mustard colored jacket. "Well, they''ve been trying to find their place for a long time, Jackie, and personally I think they found it. They control and ease national emergencies, and in that respect--"


    "I''m going to have to stop you there, Bill. America''s last three national emergencies were almost entirely resolved by the military, and by charity and aid organizations. The Storm Guards, when they were there at all, were a side-show to distract the people from the suffering going on. But did they actually help? No."


    "I think that''s a little unfair," says Bill, tightening his tie. "How about the recent California event?"


    Mike lets out a whoop. "That''s our celebrity hero he''s talking about, folks," he says, raising a glass in my direction.


    "That was California, Bill. Not America. And it wasn''t a Storm Guard who resolved the issue. It was a free-lancing Storm Born, that was sent in and who allegedly sucked the poison out of the earth."


    Not what happened, but my wallet''s telling me to keep my mouth shut.Stolen story; please report.


    "He was trained as a Storm Guard," Bill argues, but even I can see he''s losing the fight.


    "Trained, sure. But that''s the thing. Why do we need to keep a building like this open, or an organization like the Storm Guard active, when we can just recruit who we need when we need and save, and I''m not exaggerating here, billions of tax-payer dollars? Listen, it''s not just America that thinks this. It''s the Storm Guard themselves. They could carry on as they started out -- as an independent organization. But from what I''m hearing, they''ve -- the Storm Guard -- also been active in this decision to close down. It''s not just America losing the Guards, it''s every country that was lucky enough to have their own contingent. The Guards numbers are simply too low, and that''s because there hasn''t been a new Storm Born found globally in decades -- they are simply not the deterrent that they once were. In America, we at once time had fifty Guards. We have eight left alive, Bill. Eight."


    "That''s an interesting point, Jackie. But I ask you this: What''s to stop us falling back into Atomic War, if the Storm Guard are no longer a deterrent?"


    "Hydrogen bombs, Bill. Something only America has. A thousand times more powerful, more devastating, than an atomic bomb. Far more effective as a deterrent than any Storm Guard ever was, wouldn''t you say?"


    I turn away as the conversation changes to hydrogen bombs. The reporter is right, maybe. What country would have the stomach for a fight anyway, after the horrors of Atomic War? Half of China and Europe are still skeletal remains. A more devastating war... Doesn''t bear thinking about.


    "End of an Era," says Mike, not to me just talking to himself, shaking his head. His demeanor has changed, shoulders hunched. "End of a fucking era." I can hear the nerves in his hand. He downs his drink and orders two more.


    "Here," he says, sliding one across to me. "You guys deserved to go out with a bang, not a whimper." For the first time I notice the deep wrinkles around his eyes. I''ve never asked him his age, but he must be ten years older than me.


    "I said I could buy my own." Our new friend in the leather jacket has already walked away, as if the news report bored him.


    "I know. Just figured you could... That we could use a drink."


    He''s right, I could. And he''s at least as uneasy as me. I sigh away my stubbornness and raise my glass. "Cheers."


    "To the Storm Guard."


    "Storm Guard."


    We clink our glasses together and drink. Then order two more.


    A little later, as I''m looking for change in my pocket for the smokes machine, my hand finds the marble. I don''t even remember putting it in these pants, but I guess I must have. It''s like that gun when I was in the woods, and how it kept finding its way back into my palm.


    And my mind walks that forest once more, until it comes to the baby that was waiting there in the center, and the message scrawled on the floor next to her. But now it reads: is she even alive?


    Why hadn''t they announced finding her? It had been long enough for the tests to have been completed. She might have a boon for us, publicity-wise. For them, I mean. Changed public opinion enough of the Storm Guards enough to secure additional funding, if that''s what they needed. To keep them going.


    Mike hands me another whiskey, and, at least for a few hours, my thoughts are drunk away.

 Chapter 19

    The sun''s still rising as I''m walking down back to my apartment when I hear a man shouting at a bundle of blankets lying on the other side of the sidewalk. The man is wearing an expensive-looking suit and has a red tie that matches his cheeks.


    "...So either get a job or stop fucking asking people to give you shit for free. You get it? I mean, holy fuck, if I just lay around all day while real people have to go work for a living, I''d feel too embarrassed to even open my mouth. And if I ever did, it would only be to say sorry. Sorry for existing and making your life a little worse."


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it."Sir, hotel policy is no--"

 Chapter 20

    "What is it, Samuel?"


    The general''s voice is slurred and I''m guessing he''s been at the drink. Even back when I''d been in training, we''d all known he''d had a problem. He used to drink as much then as I do now, without a liver like mine to keep it in check.


    It had never much impaired his duties though, and seeing as we knew where he kept his vodka, which was very useful to teenagers on a Friday night, we didn''t report him. That, and he was Susie''s adoptive dad -- it would have broken her heart. And I wouldn''t have let anyone do that.


    Well, anyone besides myself.


    "Congrats on your retirement," I say.


    "Ah, news gets ''round fast, even in the dives you frequent, Samuel."


    "Especially in those kinds of places."


    "Well, thank you. And honestly, I was getting too old for all of it anyway."


    "Sue wasn''t answering," I say.


    "We''re all a little busy right now. As you clearly know, things here are changing. To be perfectly honest, you''re lucky you got through before the phone lines are disconnected. Wires will be pulled up and sold for scrap sometime in the next few days. Whole place is getting torn apart just like that, Samuel. The Storm Guard are dead and the vultures are circling. They''re gonna'' peck our eyes and livers out before the week''s over."


    He sounds sad drunk, and I figure I''ll try to bury old hatchets to maybe get him on my side. "You did a good job with us."


    "I did my best. I can honestly say that. Not always good, but always my best."


    "Look, I figured, seeing as she wasn''t answering her home phone, that Sue might still be at HQ with you?"


    I hear a long sigh. "Sam." He never calls me Sam. Not when I was dating his daughter, not when I was running missions into Iran. "She''s not here, Sam."


    "You know where she might be then?"


    "No, you don''t get it." I might be hearing things, but it sure sounds like he just took another deep swig. Glug. "She''s not here Sam. Not the Susie you remember."


    There''s that stone in my stomach again, pulling me down beneath the water, and I''m doing all I can to swim back to the surface for another gulp of air. "What do you mean exactly, Rupert?"


    "She''s changed, has my little girl. Don''t pretend you didn''t notice it when you were here."


    "Sure, I noticed something was a little off," I lie. "What''s the matter with her?


    I don''t know if it''s an answer to me or just an addition to his previous statement but he says, "Jonas is leaving her."


    "Oh. Shit."


    Another fissure along my concrete heart. Poor Sue. And I even feel bad for Jonas, for losing her. It''s not like I ever hated the nature manipulating American-German. He was one of those people you just couldn''t hate. He never rubbed it in that he got Sue and I didn''t... He just seemed to know that him and Sue made sense together. And beneath the sewage of broken-hearted dreams, I guess I thought they made sense, too. He was the well-studied stability she''d been after.


    "I''m sorry to hear that," I say. "Really."


    "Yeah. I''m sorry too. But I can''t blame him -- and it''s healthier for Lucy too, I think. That''s their little girl. Jonas is taking her with him and, well, that''s something."


    "Is Sue all right, Rupert?"


    "I don''t think any of us are all right. You know, you quit at the right time, Sam. I''ve always thought that. When my mind wanders back to you, I think, ''Ah, the lucky one. Got out before things got fucked."


    First I''d heard about things getting fucked. Storm Guard hadn''t changed after I''d left, not from what I could tell through papers and television. "What do you mean fucked?"Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    He laughs. It''s sharp and sardonic, and anything but genuine. "Just fucked, Sam."


    "Is this to do with them closing the Guard down? That''s one of the reasons I wanted to speak to Sue -- was hoping she could tell me what happened."


    "I doubt she''d be able to tell you."


    What did he mean by that, I wondered. Couldn''t, or wouldn''t?


    "I never really thanked you for helping us out, Sammy, in California. I hope the money has helped ease some of your troubles."


    "That''s the other reason I''m calling. The main reason, actually. And if you want to thank me, you can do so by answering truthfully."


    Silence.


    I continue, "What happened to the baby I found?"


    A long pause. "I did all I could for her."


    Now I''m under the water fully, and the stone is a boulder, and I''m screaming but water is rushing into my lungs. "If she''s dead, Rupert, I--"


    "You''ll what?" He laughs. "Kill me? Come on then, Sam. Come kill me before someone else does."


    "What happened to her?"


    "Sam, there are things I can''t talk about. This is one of them."


    I''m breathing hard into the phone and I know he can hear my anger. "She''s the first Storm Born in fuck-knows how long! She should be all over the news. Where is she?"


    More silent static.


    "I''m going to find out what''s happened to her, Rupert. And if it''s bad, pray to God I don''t find you after."


    "I know you''ll try to find answers. You always were a trier, Sam."


    "Then why not just tell me? The Storm Guard is over. What''s left to protect?"


    "... There are just some things a man has to take to the grave with him. That''s part of what being a man is, Sam. It''s about holding inside of you that fire that could engulf the world. Swallowing it down and keeping it to yourself. Trapping the flames within you, so that other buildings don''t catch."


    I don''t like how he''s talking. Never heard him speak like this, not even when he was skunk-drunk. "Rupert. Tell me what the fuck is going on."


    "Don''t call again. No one will speak to you if you try."


    "Just tell--"


    "Goodbye, Samuel."


    There''s a click as he hangs up.


    What the fuck was that all about? I had one question I''d needed answering: What had happened to the baby? Now, I felt like I had a cocktail of questions swilling around my gut and they were making me feel nauseous.


    I order a coffee and collapse into a seat in the hotel bar. First time I''ve had a coffee in months and it tastes more bitter than any Guinness. But I''m hoping it helps the cloud in my brain to dissipate.


    I make a list of questions I need answering:


    Where is the baby I''d found? (Or, what happened to her)


    Storm guard were meant to have run a few tests and then announced her arrival. Instead, baby is missing and the Storm Guard have disbanded. Rupert was reluctant to talk about her, but he knows something, at the very least. Baby was his charge.


    What was the matter with Sue?


    Knew she''d seemed different when I''d met her... But her own father talks about her like she''s dead. Or at least changed. Husband and daughter have left. The girl most full of life that I''ve ever met, now is all but drained of it. Does it have something to do with the Storm Guard breaking up?


    What secrets was the general going to ''take to his grave?''


    I didn''t like the way he was talking. Either he, the Storm Guard, or... someone else, had done something worthy of causing him enough pain that he felt he would live the rest of his life with secrets burning him up. And I got a feeling it''s more than just about the baby that''s missing. He said I got out at the right time. What did he mean?


    "Another coffee, sir?" asks a portly lady, out from her usual hide behind the bar.


    "Guinness. A pint. Please."


    She glances at the clock on the wall. "It''s barely nine."


    "Yeah. A pint of Guinness."


    She shrugs. "Whatever you want."


    I look over the list of numbers that the concierge had found for me: the general, Sue, and two other Storm Guards that I''d been a bit closer to, back in the day. But the only person who had picked up had been Rupert. And now no one else would. The general would have already issued his orders to them. Or threats.


    There''s another number, at the bottom of the list, that I''ve not yet tried. I walk over to the phone and dial in the Washinton state number, waving the barlady to bring the Guinness over to me.


    I''m not expecting an answer, not on her home-phone. Half expected Rupert to have already got to her, too -- told her not to talk.


    "Hello?"


    "Hi, Elena. It''s Sammy. From the California incident."


    A brief pause. "Oh, wow. I wasn''t expecting to, uh, well, to speak to you again. How are you?"


    "How come you ain''t in NYC helping with the big changes?"


    "The Storm Guard program shutting down, you mean? Unfortunately -- or maybe fortunately now, I guess -- I''m not part of it anymore, Sammy. Haven''t been for a month or so."


    "Oh. You quit."


    "Mm. Not exactly."


    I''m about to say ''fired!?'' but for once, I''m a little more subtle."It happens. We''ve all been there before. Look, uh, I was hoping you could help me out with a few questions I got. Like about the baby I brought back from the forest. Few others things. I know you''re not with them anymore, but you were for a while and... You might know something that can help me out."


    "I..." She takes a long breath as she considers it.


    She''s nervous. Everyone is fucking nervous.


    "No one else is talking to me, Elena. I''d really appreciate it."


    "...Ok. Yeah, sure, I''ll talk to you. But I don''t really know much -- I always had limited access and information. Need to know basis, kind of deal. Probably nothing worth telling you."


    "All the same, I''d like to hear it."


    "Not over the phone. Okay?"


    Does she really think someone''s tapped the phone of an agent who worked with the Storm Guard for just a handful of months? What I''m fast learning is: paranoia spreads like the plague.


    At least she''s willing to talk; that''s a buoy in the roiling ocean for me to cling onto.


    "Sure," I say, relieved. "If you''re willing to bring that cute mole of yours over to Cali, I''ll book you a first-class flight."

 Chapter 21

    I watch Elena''s plane land, shuddering to a halt on the tarmac like it''s just done fucking. Then I turn away from the thick glass window and go back to waiting. She''ll still need to go through security and passport control and all the other unnecessary shit California implemented after it split off. But really, who would be trying to smuggle themselves into Cali?


    I''ve always had an affinity for airports. Part because the air around them is as dirty a nun in her bedroom, part because the bars inside them are as dingy as anything you can find in the city -- so I don''t really mind waiting.


    It''d been three days since I''d spoken to Elena and she''d agreed to meet me. Not the earliest flight she could have caught, but the earliest she was willing to. Had to arrange a few things, she''d said, like someone to look after her pomeranian.


    Two days ago I''d gotten the news that another Storm had passed away. No suspicious circumstances, just sad ones. Ethan was a couple of years older than me and had been born in the aftermath of a devastating drought. Nice kid, back when I''d known him.


    He''d been Sue''s counterpart, in a way. Sue controlled water, but Ethan could turn water to salt. They''d had a friendly rivalry once-upon-a-time, Sue trying to send more at him than he could deal with, and him always dealing with it. His death was bound to be another blow to her.


    An aneurysm got him.


    Alone in his apartment. Probably lay there on his carpet alive for a little, rolling around, hopin'' someone would walk in and save him.


    Of course, no one did.


    Aneurysm. Neighbour had found him. Journalists were unanimous in their printed headlines for cause-of-death. But it''s another body added to the list of deceased Storms, and that''s some food for thought.


    I take a deep meditative breath.


    There''s a young guy with cropped hair, a few seats away from me at the bar. He catches me catching him staring, and buries his head into his paper. I spend the next couple of minutes trying to figure out if he''s got one of those familiar-type faces, or if I do actually know him.


    And why was he looking at me anyway?


    Paranoia. I musta contracted it down the phone line when talking to Elena. Amazing how these things spread.


    Like wildfire.


    Like the fire Rupert''s keeping inside him. Can''t smother it, can only contain.


    Shut up, Sammy. The kid was looking at you ''cause your face still looks like raw meat. That''s all. You never stared at a freak? Jesus, you''re wound tighter than your Rolex.


    I glance at the watch -- I might have paid over the odds for something that a ten-dollar knock-off could do just as well, but it''s keeping time and that''s what matters to me.


    Elena''s wheeling a black leather looking suitcase down the new arrivals lobby when I find her. She''s dressed casual and that almost threw me off. Jeans, white top, leather jacket, hair loose. Wouldn''t guess her as a one-time government lackey.


    "Hey. Can I take your suitcase, madam?"


    Elena stops, looks at me, then does something unexpected: takes her hands off the suitcase and wraps her arms around me in an embrace. I barely know Elena, and our relationship had been professional, at best. All the same, I like the warmth of her body and how her neck smells like roses.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Good to see you again," she says, breaking the hug and stepping back. "God, you look so much better than last time I saw you! So much. Did the surgeons do that? They work miracles, don''t they!?"


    I shake my head, pleased with her reaction. "Nah, no surgeon. I heal up pretty good all by myself."


    Her eyebrows raise in surprise. "Wow. Really? That''s kind of incredible." She flashes me a smile showing perfect teeth. "It''s good to see you again, Sammy."


    "It''s good to see you too," I reply, meaning it. Finding myself surprised to be meaning it. "Still got that bit of dirt on your face though. Really should wash it off."


    She winks playfully. "I think you like it really."


    "Maybe I do."


    I grab her case before she can object, lifting it -- not wheeling. Then feeling stupid for doing it, as if I''m trying to demonstrate my masculinity. Meman, me very strong. You woman, you impressed by strong. Dipshit.


    "So, you got yourself fired?" I think I''ve judged her mood right so that the question won''t set her off. Might seem charming, even.


    "Let go of, more so. I''m pretty sure the higher-ups knew that the Storm Guards were finished a long time ago. There weren''t many hires after me, you see, and a lot of contracts were terminated before mine was."


    I give an understanding nod. We''re not even out of the airport when the next question on my tongue falls off it. "What happened to the baby, Elena?"


    She looks around. There are barely a handful of people waiting, and only a few others walking past with luggage.


    "Can we go somewhere more private before we get into it?"


    I keep the unease below the surface for a little longer. "Sure, yeah. But... Do you really think someone might be trying to listen in?"


    "No. Not really. But, you know how it is, right? Can never be too careful."


    "However you want to play it," I say. For now, I add silently.


    We leave the airport and grab ourselves a taxi. I heave the luggage into the trunk then clamber into the back with Elena. I reel off my address to the driver, but Elena says, "No. Not your place. Somewhere more... Just not yours."


    She thinks they''ve got my line tapped too. Either that, or she doesn''t trust being alone with me. Which wouldn''t be stupid of her, I guess.


    "I know a nice little bar we can talk in. Won''t be hardly no one in it at this time of day. How about that?"


    "Sure. Might be good to talk over a coffee anyway."


    "I''m not sure you''ll like the coffees they do in this place. But it does have a snooker table," I add, to soften the blow.


    The taxi pulls away and I reckon we''ve got a good fifteen minutes to kill. I drink Elena in for a moment. "You look good outside of your suit."


    "Is that a compliment?"


    "Statement."


    "Thanks anyway." Her face hardens, becomes serious, but is tinged with just the right amount of sadness. "Hey, did you hear about Ethan?"


    I nod. "Yeah. Guess the stress of everything changing got to him. It''s the only life he knew. Only life most of us knew, to be truthful."


    "Maybe."


    She doesn''t think it was natural. And I don''t like how she''s being ''cause it''s making me even more uneasy. Fuck you, paranoia.


    She asks, "Did you have a hard time adjusting after you left?"


    I laugh. "Look at me."


    She grins too. And for a moment we''re content in silence.


    Then I kill it a knife. "I''m thinking of going on television again."


    She tries to keep her smile but can barely balance it on her lips. "Can''t stand being out of the limelight? I''ve heard it''s like a disease."


    "I think the world should know what I found in the woods."


    She bites down on her tongue, then says, "I don''t think that would be smart."


    "I''m not a smart guy."


    Her eyes wander to the guy driving the taxi. "Maybe we can we talk about it at the bar, instead?


    "Sure. Okay. Let''s talk something else until then. What are you like with football?"


    We shoot the breeze for a while with conversation so shallow you''d be hard-pressed to bury a fly in it. But that''s okay, I can wait a few minutes before getting my answers.


    It''s me that notices the car behind us, not Elena. I see it in the rearview mirror. Watch it for a while as we turn off the freeway. And I''m starting to think that maybe Elena was right to be paranoid.


    It was the driver of the smart red Ford that caught my eye. The young guy from the airport bar that I''d seen looking at me.


    And it might just be a coincidence -- and perhaps another day that''s what I''d chalk it down as. But he''s got a cigarette in his mouth now and it triggers something in my brain, and I remember where I recognize his face from.


    He''s let his stubble come out and he''s swept his mop of hair to the side -- might even have shortened it. Purposefully different.


    It''s the guy from OReilly''s from a few nights back, back when the Storm Guard''s had made their announcement. Who said I looked like something his wife might have cooked up. I hadn''t taken much of a good look at him that night... But still, as he puffs out a tiny cloud of smoke, I''m almost certain."


    "Don''t look behind you," I say to Elena, voice calm and level. "But I think we''re being followed."

 Chapter 22

    "You see him?"


    It only takes two quick breaths for Elena to compose herself. Her eyes move smoothly to the rearview mirror. She even pouts her lips and touches a finger against them, as if she''s just smudging her lipstick into place. I doubt the guy can see her reflection so easy through our vehicle''s mirror, but all the same, it''s a nice touch.


    "Yes, I see him," Elena says. Her face is pale.


    "You recognize him?"


    "No. I don''t think so."


    "Take a better look. Are you sure you don''t know that mug from anywhere?"


    She glances at me, pupils dilated, nervous. "I don''t know him, I''m certain -- but what does that matter? Shit, I knew this would happen. I should never have come here. In fact, I should have just been a fucking lawyer like Mom wanted. Fight bad guys that way, instead of becoming... Instead of this."


    Instead of what? Becoming a bad guy herself, was she going to say? "You don''t seem that bad to me," I tell her, but I''m only half paying attention, my eyes firmly back on the stubbled face behind us. "Take a right here," I say to the cab driver, who I think must be ignoring our conversation and hoping we''ll just melt away out of his car along with all our troubles.


    "Main Street''ll be jammed right now, chief," he says. "Take twenty minutes longer if we''re stuck in traffic. Maybe more."


    "I''ll pay you for your time and your petrol," I growl back, "but not for your advice. Right, here."


    We swing onto Main Street and are swallowed into the traffic that''s crawling along like some disjointed worm. The Ford isn''t let in directly behind us, but is three cars after.


    A minute or two later, the cab lurches to a halt, stuck fast in the afternoon traffic, and all we''re left with is the drumming of the driver''s fingers on the wheel.


    "I did say..." he mumbles, cocking his head.


    "We''re not going to lose him if we''re not moving," says Elena to me, clearly and fairly agitated. "I''ve watched enough car chases at the movies to know how it''s done correctly, and that''s not like this. Usually more high speed, more sudden turns down side streets more-- Hey! Hey, where''re you going?!"


    I''m half way out the door already, but I lean back in and tell her, "Never said I was trying to lose him. Just didn''t want him to lose us, neither. Wait here." And to the cab guy, "Don''t move until I get back. I''ll only be two minutes."


    "I can''t park up here, buddy. If we need to move, then I''ll have to--"


    "I''ll pay double our fare."


    "Ahhh, jeez, I wish I could, but I just can''t. I''d be blocking traffic and I don''t want to risk losing my--"


    "Triple."


    He considers. "Okay. Two mins, max."


    It takes the driver that''s been shadowing us until I''m a car away from him, to notice me walking towards him. Guess he decided, stuck in traffic as we are, that he didn''t need to be a hawk.


    More fool him.


    I see him mouth something along the lines of "Oh shit." He looks around frantic but sees there''s no way out -- at least not in his Ford. And I''m already in case he fancies a run.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Tap tap on his window.


    He ignores me, so I''m looking at the window and remembering that it''s the corners you go for if you want to break it without breaking yourself -- not the middle.


    But the fella saves my boot the trouble and winds his window down.


    "Can I help you?" he asks, smiling. But there''s sweat beading above his top lip.


    I return his smile with something equally genuine. Then, I lean my head through and grab his striped shirt by the collar. "Who the fuck are you?"


    His neck bobs as he swallows. "Do... Do I know you?"


    Figure I best help jog his memory. "You think my face is bad, right? I remember you sayin'' your wife could do better. Well"--I grab his chin firm in one hand--"do you wanna see how good I am in the kitchen?"


    "Please, this situation isn''t as bad as it look--" He breaks off, wincing, as he feels the poison daggering its way through me and into his skin. I might not be like how I was in the woods, but I can still do enough damage up close to disfigure him.


    "Your skin''s already welting. Take a quick look in your mirror. That''s right, it''s bubbling up real nice."


    "Jesus. Fuck. Please stop."


    "Who are you and why the fuck you following me?"


    A huge cream bubble grows beneath his bottom lip, then pops, releasing a stream of yellow liquid that dribbles down his chin. He screams, "Let go and I''ll fucking tell you! Jesus, just let go!"


    I do let go. Then, I reach around and open the door, so that he''s not going to be locking up on me.


    There''s a car honking already, and I''m guessing my cab is holding traffic up. Good.


    "Your own momma''s not going to recognize you if you don''t tell me everything I want to know. Or if I think you''re lying. So come on, get those lips flapping like a turkey."


    He takes a deep breath, hand near his chin, considering whether to touch it or not. He decides not. "I''m... I''m a reporter, or least, I was a reporter."


    I eye him carefully. That all this is? Some newspaper planning on running a story about how I''m spending my millions? Makes some sense, at least. This guy was way too amateur to have been an agent for the Storms. "Keep talking, I say. "What do you mean by ''was a reporter''?"


    "I was... uh..." He starts again. "I had a disagreement with the owner about ethical practices in journalism, a few weeks back. He thought we shouldn''t be breaking inta places to get a scoop, and I thought... different. Long and short of it was, we parted ways."


    "You broke into my place? For a fucking story?"


    "No!" He holds up his hands. "No, I didn''t do that."


    More horns blaring.


    "So I was unemployed and looking for a new job when I get an envelope through my door. Had a wad of cash and your address and some instructions. It was a lot of money, and the promise of more each week, as long as I did what it asked. Seemed like basic journalism to me, not even real PI work, you know? So I thought, what the hell." He pauses. "There was no name given though. I mean, besides yours. Cause I know you''re going to ask for it, but God''s honest truth I don''t have a name to give you. Whoever sent it was careful. Even the instructions were printed out to save me seeing the handwriting."


    "What did the instructions say?"


    "I was to keep an eye on you -- that''s all. Was to follow you around, see where you went, who you spoke to, give a daily report on your activity to an answering machine at the end of a number I got given. I''ve only been doing it a few days -- first night was that one in the bar. You didn''t know who I was, so"--he shrugs--"figured it would be a good chance to get a proper look at you. Not to mention find out what you were doing down in that place for eight hours every night. Snooker? Who even plays snooker these days?"


    A line, maybe from a movie, wriggles into my head: It''s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.


    "I want that number for the answering machine, and I want your driver''s I.D. Now."


    He nods and reaches for his wallet. "Sure. Sure."


    "Alexander Rotanda," I read outoud. Then I slip it into my pocket, exchanging it for a pad of paper and a Biro. "Write the number."


    "No need." He opens the glove compartment and takes out a thin slip of paper, handing it over to me.


    "Okay. Good. That all you can tell me?"


    "I swear it."


    "Alex, I''ve got your name. I''ve got your address. If you try anything that I don''t like, I will come for you. Understand?


    He nods.


    Then, I give him my number, slipping it inside his jacket pocket. "You get another letter, or a call, or anything to do with me whatsoever -- you ring me ASAP."


    "Yeah. Okay, I can do that."


    That''ll have to do. I pat his cheek with my palm. "Good boy."


    There''s a lady shoutin'' and calling me an ass as I walk back to the cab. I flip her the bird, much to her chagrin, and get back inside.


    "About time, chief," says the driver. That lady was ''bout to blow a gasket."


    I give him a different address to go to: the hotel where I''d called Elena from. I don''t fancy O''Reilly''s, knowing that I was being watched there. Hotel might not be safe either, but it''s more open. And there are more exits.


    "Well?" says Elena.


    "It''s okay," I say. "Or at least, I think so. I''ll fill you in on the way. Once we get there though, I''m gonna need some answers from you."

 Chapter 23

    The rain is banging a heavy drumbeat on the cab roof as we crawl through the traffic. I tell Elena about the guy who''d been following us; she tells me she doesn''t like it one bit and that he must be an agent and the I.D just has to be fake.


    "You guys were that bad?" I retort. "That you''d walk up to your mark in a bar and talk to him? Then let yourselves get seen at an airport? And drive directly behind him when you''re meaning to surreptitiously follow?"


    She concedes that they probably weren''t that bad. And that he might not have been an agent. But she still doesn''t like that someone was hired to watch me.


    "That makes two of us," I say. The answerphone number is weighing heavy in my jacketpocket, and I''m wondering whether to try get it traced or to just give it a call. Probably the former''s smarter -- I''ll just need to find someone who can do it.


    The clouds are roiling grey masses above us, and the late afternoon has been swallowed whole by their shadows. The hotel -- Grand Lake Resort -- is a white-brick art nouveau affair, that looked like a museum in the daylight, but now, with its domed spires that twist up to the clouds, it looks more like a gothic cathedral.


    I pay the cab driver and heave Elena''s luggage through the wide double doors. It''s not where I''d meant for her to stay -- I had enough spare room at my apartment, and would only have needed to kick a couple of spiders out to accommodate her. But I don''t like the thought that my place was being watched.


    "I like it," she says, twirling around the reception, taking in the quasi-religious frescos on the walls and ceiling. Angels sipping tea civilly, or playing cards with one another. "What a wonderful place. So grand and dramatic."


    I grunt and head to the reception. Different fella tapping keys today, but he takes my card just like they all do.


    "I got you a room on the twelfth," I say when I return to Elena. "If the rain clears up, you''ll get a pretty good view of the lake behind the hotel. Hear it can be kind of pretty."


    We''re at the lift waiting for it to come down when the patter of shoes on marble floor causes us both to turn. Then, small hands are wrapped tight around my waist and I''m finding myself in my second embrace of the day. And I''m trying to recall the last time I was hugged prior to today -- but nothing comes to mind.


    I barely recognize her in the yellow dress. Her hair''s gone from a tangle of auburn knots to something like silk. Her skin''s clean and I''m realizin'' she''s actuallykinda pretty.


    "Hey, Lilly." I don''t know whether to pat her head -- never been too instinctively paternal. In the end, I give her a quick squeeze.


    "Lillith!" comes a voice that''s in hot pursuit. A member of staff is red-cheeked and panting as he plods after her. "Come. Here."


    Lilly looks up at me. "They found me a tutor."


    "Ah, well, that''s my fault. I asked them to. Education is important, I hear. Teach yourself to fish and you can keep on catching fish. Or somethin'' like that."


    "I know you did." Those big saucer eyes are staring at me like a cat. "Thank you."


    She looks at Elena.


    "Hello," says Elena, puzzled but smiling.


    "Are you his girlfriend?"


    She frowns. "No."


    "You''re pretty enough to be."


    Elena laughs. "Why, thank you. And you are...?"


    "He might not be the most handsome guy, but he''s plenty handsome inside."


    "Gee, thanks."


    The staff member finally catches up. "Come on, Lillith. He''ll be here in a minute."


    I nod to her. "Good luck. I''ll come check on you soon, okay?" My glance switches to the guy who is now holding her hand. "And if anyone here doesn''t treat you so good, you just tell me, okay?"


    The man''s cheeks turn a strange mix of pale white and hot red. He turns and trots Lilly away.


    The girl looks back over her shoulders at us; Elena gives her a wave, and Lilly returns it.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Then the lift arrives with a ding and I tell Elena about Lilly as I take her to her room.


    I wait at the bar until Elena comes down again. She wanted to freshen up, so I suggested meeting downstairs in an hour and getting dinner in the hotel''s restaurant when she was ready. Could talk over what we needed to with a little food in front of us. Talking was usually better that way.


    I didn''t expect the floral dress, saffron and ochre in weaving twists and bright bursts of color. Maybe it''s a casual dress on some ladies, but it ain''t causal the way it fits her curves. I didn''t expect Elena''s eyes to be darker either, lips to be redder, legs to be more on show. Didn''t expect the stir of blood in my groin.


    "You ready?"


    I feel like I''m on a date, which is dumb, ''cause this is the opposite. All the same, I wish I wasn''t wearing a jacket older than Lilly, especially when I could have afforded something nicer. Cleaned my boots, too. That would have been smart.


    I down my pint and get to my feet, "You look good. Not that you need the makeup or nothing. Just mean... You know..."


    A pretty, painted smile. "Thanks."


    We go to the dining hall and I ask for a table in the corner. Shame, ''cause Elena looks like something that deserves to be shown off, but our conversation don''t need extra ears.


    I order a bottle of red and a bottle of white. "Don''t usually drink plonk," I explain, "but--"


    "Plonk?"


    "Wine. English call it that. Musta picked it up when we were stationed over there, back when the London got, well, you know."


    She nods. "We were still allied with them back then, weren''t we?"


    I wonder how much younger than me she is? A few years, at least. I''d ask, but it''s rude to do so. So I''ll wait until she''s had a couple of glasses of wine before I do. "Yeah. We were allied up until then. So the Whitehouse sent us over to help maintain the status quo while a new government could be set up in Manchester."


    "You were like a riot squad?"


    "Right. But on a nationwide level. Shit was pandemonium."


    She nods and looks concerned, but she doesn''t probe too far, and I''m glad she doesn''t. Civilian deaths weren''t what any of us wanted, and not only did we play our part in killing an old alliance, but we gained a lot of bad publicity from the whole circus. Took years for the Guards to repair that image even in America.


    A waiter pours a puddle of wine into my glass and asks if I''d like a taste. "Better she does," I say. "I don''t know good wine from rat poison."


    He obliges. Elena approves with a curt nod and the waiter fills our glasses.


    Small talk over, I dive in. "What happened to the baby, Elena?"


    She takes a sip of her white then leans back, shaking her head. "I don''t know, exactly."


    "What do you know?"


    She shrugs. "I know that you woke up on a sickbed, rolled out and then left without asking to see her again."


    That stings like a dagger to the heart. I want to tell her I regret it, but just say, truthfully, "I had to get out of there as soon as I could." It hadn''t been quite as quick as she''d made out though. I''d first been debriefed, filled them in on most of it -- but not on the beak, not on the message scrawled next to the baby. Then, after making sure they''d wired me my money, I''d been wheeled out and driven home.


    "What happened to her?" I repeat.


    "You know what that baby was capable of better than anyone. Saw what she had already done. She would have been dangerous to keep fully conscious, so for most of her time with us, she was drugged into a stupor. As bad as it sounds, it seemed to stop the contagion."


    It takes me a moment to realize how tight I''m holding my glass.


    "She wasn''t hurt, not as far as I know," Elena adds to placate me the tiniest fraction.


    "And then?"


    "Then she was taken away by another agency. I wasn''t involved and don''t know anything about it, other than one day I came in, and she was gone."


    "How do you know she was even taken, then? And not buried in a shallow grave somewhere out back?"


    Her eyes are moist by the time she replies. "I was told that was what happened. By Rupert. And I asked around, and a guy who worked nightshift told me a bunch of vans had turned up about two AM. So, I think it''s true." A pause. "It could be true."


    She wants to believe its true. Needs to, maybe. But I need the real truth. "But you don''t know it''s what happened for certain. And if it is, where the fuck is she now?"


    She shakes her head softly. "I don''t know. We weren''t told where she was taken, just that she was no longer our responsibility. That if we spoke about this to anyone -- family, friends, press -- then..." Her voice trails off.


    "Then what?"


    "It was never exactly said. But we all knew. There had been deaths in the organization already. I don''t mean the Storm Borns."


    We pause as the waiter returns, topping up our glasses and taking our orders.


    "Look, Sammy, that''s not the only reason I decided to talk to you. The baby, I mean. There''s other stuff too, that''s... It''s eating away at me. And it might be related, or it might not be."


    I wince, not wanting to want to hear other stuff if it''s worse than what she''s already said. But I have to hear it.


    "How long did you work for them?" I ask.


    "Eight months."


    "Okay. That''s not long."


    "Long enough. Sam -- can I call you Sam?"


    I always hated the name. Formal and stuffy. Not "Samuel" level, but one step below. But hearing Elena say it, it sounds maybe not so bad. "Sure."


    She gives me the ghost of a smile. "Sam, my job for most of my time in the agency was to chase Storms -- chase the natural disasters that created them."


    "Right. To find people like me. ''Cept there ain''t been people like me in a decade, ''part from the baby I found."


    "That''s... I don''t think that''s quite right."


    I''m getting used to this familiar sinking feeling -- the feeling that says: boy Sammy, you had it all wrong again and things are probably a lot more fucked than even you thought. "What''s not quite right, exactly?"


    A long sigh. "I don''t know this for certain, Sam. I doubt many people did, except those right at the top. Maybe some of the Storm Guard too. It would explain a few of their deaths, like the Pitt twins."


    Ah Jesus, now I really don''t want to hear it, because I think I know what''s coming."


    "I think we found plenty of new Storm Born, Sam."


    The glass of wine hovers before my mouth for what seems like an hour, but it''s probably only a second in reality.


    "And I think we killed them all."

 Chapter 24

    I''m silent for a while, glass still hovering in my hand as if I''m the statue of justice and it''s the scales I''m weighing up. I''m tryin'' decide if Elena is fucking crazy for even suggesting the Storm Guard could be in on infanticide -- ''specially of their own kind -- or if I''m the fucking crazy one, ''cause there''s a sliver of gray matter in my head that''s telling me to listen to what she has to say.


    Should just down your drink, get up, and leave, Sammy. That''s what you should do.


    "Do you know what you''re sayin''?"


    She nods, her face solemn as a grave. But I already saw her acting from when we were in the cab and she looked in the rearview mirror. She''s got an emotional gambit of faces that she swaps around like masks.


    I put down the glass and rub a hand ''round my face. The world''s suddenly feeling awful heavy. Kinda like someone pushing down hard on your ribs. I want to tell Elena that the Storms are my family. We were raised together. I know nearly all of them, and I might not like all of them, but they''re good people. They''re family.


    "I hope you got something good, then. Some evidence."


    "Yeah. A bit. And I''ve got experiences."


    "Shit, a bit of evidence. You mean you''ve just got anecdotes, right?"


    "You don''t think it''s strange there were no Storm Borns up until the baby a few months ago? That they just... stopped happening."


    I shrug and recite a line I''d heard on the news. "Mother Nature don''t need them no more. There are no bombs ripping into her body, poisoning her lungs. She''s... She doesn''t need them. Us."


    "There are no-go zones in Arizona, Sam. They just don''t get reported. They''re not allowed to be. Then there are the islands in the pacific that are... well, no longer islands. Mountains in the oceans that are now pancakes, the sea lapping them up. There are bombs falling, Sam. Hydrogen. Just not on any enemy. At least, not yet."


    My hand runs uneasily through my hair. "Yeah, we got ''em, but... We''ve shown our hand to the world already, and--"


    "We test them, Sam. All the time. You''re being willfully ignorant if you believe anything less. Not only that, we''re finding ways to make them more powerful. Why stop at something just a thousand times more powerful than an atom bomb?"


    Because we''ll fucking destroy the world and ourselves along with it, I think, but I say, "You''ve got an active imagination." My palms are feeling clammy and I wipe them on my pants.


    "This isn''t speculation, Sam. I''ve seen the files, and as dumb as I look, I do have proof of that much back in my room. Hell, they brought the Storm Guard in twice to help pacify islands prior to testing -- just when I worked for them. How many other times, God only knows."


    Pacify. I don''t like that word. Evacuate has a nicer ring.


    Ah shit, am I being "willfully ignorant?"


    The waiter brings our meals, chicken for me and salmon for Elena. But I''m not feeling much like eating.


    "Enjoy your dinner," he says, smiling way too broadly for his thin lips.


    I prod at the potatoes as if they''re mountains.


    Then I push the fork hard into one until it becomes mush.


    "You think we''re trying to kill any new Storms so that, if there was a war, nothing is going to be around to stand up to our bombs? Unlike how the Storm Born once banded together to bring an end to the Atomic War."


    Elena also doesn''t seem hungry, her fork hovering above her fish as if she''s hunting it fresh and waiting just for the right moment to pounce. But the fish escapes to live another day and she lays down her harpoon.


    "That had crossed my mind." This time, her expression is more natural and understated. She''s impressed that I strung out an idea enough to come up with a theory. I want to say to her that I''m not as stupid as I look, but I think saying that makes people sound at least as stupid as they look.


    "I ain''t saying I believe any of this."


    "I know. But I can prove the testing -- I can show you two of the selected islands before and after."


    "How about you tell me about the part you can''t prove? ''Cause that one has me a lot more interested right now."


    She nods. "The Storm Borns."


    "Yeah."


    Elena has a long swig of her white. "Okay. As you know, I was part of a team that chased the type of events that have historically created Storms. Of course, even historically it''s rare for a Storm to come out of a natural disaster. Maybe sometimes we got there too late, but more often than not, there was just no Storm to find."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Right. My ex always told me I was one in a million."


    She gives me a polite laugh. "I think you probably are, Sam. But a usual Storm was more like one in a couple of hundred natural disasters -- at least that was the rate during the Atomic War and for a time after."


    "Sounds about right."


    "Then, Storms just... Stopped being found. For whatever reason. Except, I don''t think they did. I know I was only at the agency for less than a year, but I chased dozens of events. Mostly in America, but not solely. We were sent to Europe and even less populated parts of Asia. And there were five groups in the agency, Sam, that chased. I was in Delta."


    "And you''re going to tell me you found something?"


    She holds up a hand as if asking me to be patient. "I helped track natural disasters and I helped predict them, too. Prediction based on available analysis was my area. I went wherever Delta went to give my expert opinion or analysis. I was, however, never taken out to search the actual disaster zones -- I didn''t have that kind of training. I would stay back in camp instead and look at data. Military personnel -- highly trained soldiers -- went into these search zones. Sometimes, depending on how bad it got, Storm Guards would be called in to go along with them, helping keep civilians back, or to uncover rubble, or whatever. They were escorts."


    I''m letting my hopes rise up a little. There''s nothing she''s said, at least not about Storm Borns, that''s making me itch. And yet... I know it''s coming. I pull out a cigarette figuring it''ll be good for my nerves, and am about to light up when the waiter hurries over and tells me "sorry, but no smoking in the restaurant" and I start to remember why I never go nowhere fancy.


    The waiter scutters off and Elena continues.


    "There was an earthquake, about six months back, northern Nevada. Six or seven on the Richter. Hopefully it wasn''t going to be terrible as the area was fairly underpopulated.The nearest town was small, a little like that old frontier place I first met you at."


    My mind snaps back to that dying prospector''s place, where people should have left years ago but were either too prideful or too stubborn to leave.


    "We were there by early evening, sun still falling. We got camp set up, and I could hear men and women hurrying around, even saw a couple of Storms that bad been brought in -- I remember seeing the Pitt twins and thinking ''shit, it must be bad to have called them in!'' but also I was relieved in a way, because who would you rather have help fix up an earthquake than those two?"


    She pauses and has another stab at her fish. This time the pink salmon falls apart as the fork finds its mark, but she doesn''t bring it up to her mouth. Just leaves the fork lying there, salmon speared on its prongs. "It''s about two in the morning, and I''m still awake. The slow response to the earthquake was in large part my fault, I felt, as I hadn''t done a good enough job aggregating the results that I used to get daily from nationwide seismologists. So I''m just lying in bed, struggling under the weight of however-many people turn out to be dead. Sandman is definitely not creeping through my door tonight." She pauses and looks awkward. Like she doesn''t want to tell me the next part.


    Probably worried how I''ll react.


    Maybe I don''t blame her for being worried about it. I don''t even know how I''ll react. But I nod and encourage her to go on.


    "I get up, decide I''ll go outside and have a smoke and see if that helps me to unwind. So I slip out of my dome -- which is different from where the military people sleep, and different again to where the Storms do -- but all the big tents are next to each other."


    "You smoke?" I ask, stupidly.


    "Back then I did. But I gave it up not long after. I''m trying to look after my lungs."


    I shrug. "It''s how I look after mine."


    Ignoring me, she continues, "I''ve just finished my cigarette and stepped it out with my heel. And I''m all alone out there, outside the makeshift base, which was much smaller than the base you visited -- this was something put together in a couple of hours. I''m out there and it''s dark and then I hear voices. They''re hushed, but you could tell from the tone it was an argument." She pauses, her eyes flicking up as if she''s reliving that moment exactly.


    "Then what?"


    "Then I see them. They have torches and the torches are like swords cutting through the darkness, heading towards base. Then, the lights turn onto each other, lightning each other up, as the group discusses whatever it is they''re discussing. Most of them are military men. But I see the Pitt twins too, and it was the Pitts I heard talking. They don''t seem happy and as their voices get closer, I notice one of them... His voice is cracking. He''s upset."


    "That''s it? Ah, those boys always got upset. They''re the in-touch-with-their-emotions type."


    She shakes her head. "The Pitts then hang back, for whatever reason. They don''t want to go inside the base, at least not with those men. Them separating from the group opens up the military men better to my view. And a torch hits something that one of them is holding over his shoulder."


    This. This is what I knew was coming. Not knew what it was, but knew it was bad. I''ve been hearing the chug chug chug of the train coming, and now it''s about to roar out of the tunnel and ram a hundred miles an hour into my chest. I brace for impact.


    "It''s a black bag. A body bag -- child size, and even then the bag is tied up at one end because it''s too big for whatever''s inside."


    "A baby." My voice is tuneless. Sounds like rocks. Heavy as one, too.


    "I don''t know. But it was that size. The size of a baby. I waited for the men to go inside their tents, then slipped back into mine."


    "Doesn''t mean they killed it, even if it was a baby."


    She shakes her head. "No. It doesn''t. And I didn''t think they had killed it. I thought it might possibly have been a dead Storm Born, because why else would they bring it back? And why else bring back just one body? If it was a Storm and they wanted to run tests on it, then it made sense. And of course, I blamed myself. If we''d got there sooner, we might have saved that baby''s life. A Storm Borns." She pauses then adds, "Not that that makes it any more or less valuable than any other baby."


    I let out a long breath. "You can''t blame yourself for nature being unpredictable. That''s what nature is, at its core."


    She smiles and says simply, "Thank you."


    "That it then?" I say, relieved. "That''s why you think we''re killing Storm Borns? Because a natural disaster that probably killed hundreds of people, also killed a baby? And you saw it brought back. Hell,--"I slosh back my red--"it probably wasn''t even Storm Born, Elena. They just wanted to bring it back in to make sure it hadn''t been a Storm."


    She looks at her empty wine glass, then at me. "That''s just it, though."


    "What is?"


    "Well, the next day, we got the official death tally."


    "And?"


    "No one had died, Sam. There had been no deaths at all. The earthquake hadn''t been as bad as we''d first feared -- it had been downgraded to a five -- and it had barely rattled the town nearest toits epicenter. If the only death was a baby, and its family hadn''t even reported it missing..."


    Suddenly, the wine isn''t agreeing with my stomach.

 Chapter 25

    Dinner just sits there stewing.


    So do I.


    Elena has gone to the restroom and I''m just left at the table and I still ain''t touched the chicken but I already got a real bad taste in my mouth.


    I think she''s wrong. It''s one thing for her to believe a bunch of military guys who are "just following orders, sir" could maybe, for some reason, kill a baby. And Elena could lump the Storm Guard in with the military, ''cause really, that''s what we became. A branch of the army. With those details -- and only those details -- I can see how her mind might have come to some frightening conclusions.


    But she didn''t know the Pitt twins. I did. They wouldn''t have taken candy from a baby, much less put a bullet in its head. And if Susie knew about any of that stuff she''d have damn near lost her mind.


    Ah.


    Shit.


    No, she didn''t lose her mind. She was just... Aloof, when I saw her. Her marriage had been more on the rocks than how I have my whiskey, so she was obviously going to be feeling it.


    Ahhh. Shit.


    Elena had told me what she believed had happened to the twins as we sat staring at our meals. They weren''t lured. You saw the pictures from the camera! They looked at it, Sam, before they walked into the mist. Directly at it. They were saying goodbye.


    Jesus. What if it was suicide? What if it was worse than that -- what if they knew it was a Storm Born causing the mist, and they knew what was going to happen to it when found? Maybe it wasn''t just that they couldn''t take another murder, but they were trying to get to the baby first.


    Surely they weren''t that stupid. They must have known they were going to die if they went in.


    Yeah, they knew. But they went anyway. Like some attempt at atonement that they knew wouldn''t work out so good, and that was okay, ''cause they died trying to do something right.


    Maybe they just wanted to die like that.


    Surely someone would have leaked something to the media.


    There have been deaths, Sam.


    Two other Storms had died in similar fashion before I''d been sent in. Maybe they were after a slice of forgiveness, too. Or maybe the mist was just a good way to kill people off and keep it from looking too suspect.


    You''re talking insane, Sammy.


    What about Ethan? Aneurysm. Flapping around all fish-like on his bathroom floor. That''s a lot of dead Storms in a very small space of time.


    How many are left? Six, I think. Including me.


    Are we all going to be hunted down?


    Except, I don''t know anything about it all -- I quit early -- so I''m safe. They don''t care about me ''cause I don''t know nothin''. Well, nothing except for the baby.


    But what about Susie... What about her kid? What if they''re next on this hitlist?


    No. They''re safe. Everyone is safe because there is no conspiracy. Don''t get reeled in. Elena is just going through some shit right now -- a breakdown, maybe.


    Speak of the devil.


    Elena''s walking across the restaurant, her heels clicking and clacking on the marble veins before she slips back into her chair opposite me.


    For a while we''re silent. I think she''s watching me, trying to work out what I''m thinking. Good luck, Elena, ''cause I don''t even know.


    "Want dessert?"


    She laughs, but it''s short and sounds resigned. "No. Thank you."


    "I want to see the files you''ve got. The islands that were used for testing."


    I call the waiter over and pay.


    The lift is bright and we''re the only two in it. The walls are mirrors and Elena''s yellow dress is like a sun surrounding me. My eyes wander down the mirror behind her, following a flower stem down to her ass.


    "I''m scared, Sam."


    My eyes find her face again. In the spotlights, the mole beneath her eyes looks something like a tear. "Storms are dying, too."


    "I didn''t mean for me."


    The view from her window is black. Can''t find the moon through the clouds, let alone the lake. The rains taps against the window in gusty waves of fingertips. I pull the nylon curtains across and lockout the night -- don''t need any more darkness in here with us.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Elena''s sitting on the bed with a file she took out of her suitcase. I watch her thumb through a wad of paper and hear it clip against her nail. Her perfume fills the air here better than it did in the restaurant. It''s something like honey and I''m suddenly hungry looking at her.


    She takes four print-outs from the folder and lays them across the double bed. On the rumpled blue linen, the two satellite images of the islands look like they''re in situ. The other two images, however, just blend in.


    "There," she says. Not triumphantly, just factually. She points to the two on the left, the islands. "Two islands -- part of the Marshall Islands. Four years ago." She points to the images on the right. The satellite images of the ocean.


    I look at the coordinates listed and even though the paper is blank, I''m ahead of her. "Same islands, right?"


    A nod. "Six months ago. It would have taken hundreds of hydrogen bombs to do this. Or..."


    Her voice trails off but I know she means "or something bigger."


    These images aren''t enough to go to the media. Not even combined with my story about the baby I found. At best I''ll get my name smeared as some fame-hungry conspiracy nut. At worst, maybe I''ll get myself killed.


    "Where did you get these picturesfrom?" I ask.


    "One of the Storm Search teams -- Beta -- was sent out to the Marshall Islands some time ago. Came back empty-handed, but I heard enough from a colleague in Beta about what was happening there. Heard enough to make me want to learn more. He got me these."


    "And that colleague is..."


    "Dead. Heart attack three months ago."


    I''d only been after a name. Jesus. "Of course he is."


    "Yeah. More blood on my hands."


    "Why did you get these? Why keep them?"


    She shrugs. "I wanted to know what side I was on."


    "You make it sound simple."


    "Isn''t it? If I''d become a lawyer like Mom wanted, it would have been to help those who needed help. I just figured I could help more people at once, if I worked for the Storm Bureau."


    "That why you quit? You finally figured out which side you were working for?"


    "I''m still not sure which side I was on. That''s why I''m here."


    "I don''t think anything is ever as simple as good guys and bad guys, Elena."


    She raises her hands. "Oh, now you like nuanced discussions about right and wrong?"


    "When did I say I didn''t?" I''m almost indignant.


    "You--" She pauses. "You just never struck me as that kind of guy. That''s all."


    "A guy with morals? Or a guy with a brain?


    She flushes red and it suits her dress. She''s like a big rose blooming on the top of it.


    "Sorry," she says. "I''m just tired."


    "We need to know for certain, Elena. I need to know. If they really are killing Storm Borns, then God fucking help them. And if they killed that little baby that I rescued... Not even God''ll want to get in my way."


    She shuffles the papers back into their folder. "So. What do you want to do?"


    I consider again -- but I''d already made up my mind when we were watching our food go cold. "We got two options, the way I see it. One is that I visit Sue for a tete a tete. She was our leader, at least back when I was a Guard, and if anyone knew what was happening to Storm Borns, besides her father, it''ll be her. And unlike her father, I think she''ll speak to me." I don''t really know if she''ll speak to me at all, but the line sounded good out loud.


    "I didn''t think the Guard had leaders in their own ranks. You''re all equal but special -- wasn''t that the image crafted?"


    "Yeah, we were equal, officially. Ranking-wise. But we all knew different. See, we all respected Sue like we didn''t all respect each other, and we all listened to her. She was kind and smart. The kind of smart you are and I''m not."


    "I think you''re smart, Sam. And I''m... I''m sorry for suggesting anything otherwise. But I really think you''re smarter than you let on."


    I think the drink and the fumes from car exhausts have probably whittled away what smarts I ever had, but I don''t say so.


    She asks, "Do you know where Sue is?"


    Good time to let out a sigh. "I know where she''s meant to be, but I''ve tried to call her home a few times and there''s been no reply. That''s why I''m going with option two."


    "Which is?"


    "The Citadel."


    "Oh."


    I always hated that name. The Citadel. The big concrete gravestone I''d seen on the news the other day. The place the general had said would be pecked apart by vultures.


    A thought crossed my mind, "You used to work there, right?"


    "On occasion. Most of my work was out on the field though. Really, I only came in for briefings."


    "You know about the basement floors?"


    She frowns. Her lifts only went up. Only had buttons to go up.


    "I didn''t know it had a basement."


    "Six floors underground. Two of them are where I used to live. Where all young Storms did. Guess you might have called it our home, but that would be a kindness to it."


    "And the other floors? What was on those?"


    I shrug. "Restricted." My mind flashes back to the thick steel door with the big wheel in the center that made it look like the entrance to a safe -- but it was just a staircase beyond. We''d made it through once -- bored young superheroes that needed something to do to kill the time. But we hadn''t got far before we were caught. Hadn''t looked in any of the filing cabinets. How boring they''d seemed back then.


    Sue got the worst of it from her father -- we didn''t see her again for more than a week. But we didn''t get away easy either. Got an official warning. Even the Storms that hadn''t tried getting down there got the warning. And a second warning meant getting kicked off the team, so we''d let the mysteries below us rest peaceful.


    Until now.


    "If it hasn''t already all been burned or transported, I''ll find out what''s down there, Elena. That fails, then I guess I hunt down Sue and get her to talk."


    She nods. "Okay. Sounds like we have a plan. When are we leaving?"


    My turn to laugh. "No offense, but it''ll just be me leaving. You don''t have much to offer beyond a brain -- and I can access that over a phone. Besides, and you might have figured this out already, but I never worked well as part of a team."


    "When are we leaving?"


    "You''re persistent."


    "You don''t know the half of it."


    I guess I do like her mole. It''s decent company. "I don''t know. I got that phone number I need tracing first -- the answering machine. And then... I don''t know. Tomorrow afternoon. Day after, otherwise."


    She nods. "You got a hotel room of your own?"


    "No. I don''t live too far out."


    She takes a slow step close to me and that honey scent is sweet on my tongue.


    "I think you''ll drown if you step out into this weather," she says.


    She wants me to stay and I know it. And I don''t think just ''cause she''s nervous. But I''m not in the mood for fucking, not after what I''ve heard.


    My eyes wander the stems of her dress again, down to her breasts this time, and suddenly I''m a little less not in the mood. "Yeah," I croon in reply. "That''s true. And I ain''t a great swimmer."


    "Perfect," she replies. Elena nods to the corner of the room and then turns around walking towards the wardrobe. "There''s a decent enough sofa there for you to stay on -- I''ll just grab you a blanket. This way, we can get a nice early start."