Night Covenants: The Synthetic Wars, #4

By Jeremy Flagg

Nobody walks away unscathed.

 

Conthan's refusal to kill his mentor has placed the fate of mankind in the hands of a madman with unlimited power and resources. With a war threatening to consume the world, there can be no more running. Conthan fears that the only way to emerge victorious is to give in to his powers and surrender what's left of his humanity.

 

To defeat a powerful man, there must be a powerful woman.

 

Twenty-Seven, sentenced to die in the Outlands, now leads the rebellion. However, it is the war between her past and present that with potential to break her. Despite this, she stands on the front lines, she is ready to save the world, or at least she hopes. But with war coming to her doorstep, she will need to unite mankind and the Children of Nostradamus for this final confrontation.

 

The Synthetic Wars is a dystopian sci-fi series featuring superheroes. Fans of X-Men and broken futures will love this fast-paced series introducing the Children of Nostradamus Universe.

The Synthetic Wars

• Morning Sun (Prequel)
• Nighthawks
• Night Shadows
• Night Legions
• Night Covenants

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brave New Words
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224513048

Jeremy Flagg

Jeremy Flagg is the creator of the dystopian superhero universe, CHILDREN OF NOSTRADAMUS. Taking his love of pop culture and comic books, he focuses on fast paced, action packed novels with complex characters and contemporary themes. He continues developing the universe with the Journal of Madison Walker, an ongoing serial set two hundred years in the future. Jeremy spends most of his time at his desk writing snarky books. When he gets a moment away from writing, he binges too much Netflix and Hulu and reads too many comic books. Jeremy, a Maine native, resides in Charlotte, North Carolina and can be found in local coffee shops pounding away at the keyboard.

Book preview

Prologue

2033

Chicago wept for fallen gods.

Rain pelted the pavement along the pier. Quarter-sized orbs of water struck hard enough to make Conthan wince. He refused to look away from the six-foot-high stack of reclaimed lumber. It had taken them nearly three hours to find enough wood to create the funeral pyre. At the top of the mangled wooden planks lay a figure tightly shrouded in white.

Closest to the pyre, Twenty-Seven stood with her back to them. After the death of so many comrades, she demanded they have a proper send-off at least for Ariel.

The storm struck Conthan as fitting, a literal representation of the swirling emotions just beneath the surface of every person in attendance. Nighthawks, Church of Nostradamus, even the Paladins—they made a motley crew of heroes. His bruised ribs and black and blue skin were reminders that no hero was immortal.

Conthan awoke this morning in a makeshift hospital, a white-walled tent filled with a mix of civilians and military personnel. They each moved with purpose, carrying gauze, bags of saline or blood, and dragging more than one crash cart through the grass.

Kid, how are we doing? the doctor had asked.

She picked up the chart resting by his feet and dropped the glasses from her forehead to her nose. A quick scan told her everything she needed.

Busted ribs, severe bruising, a concussion. How are you feeling?

I hurt.

Two men carried a cot covered in a white sheet. Conthan watched as an arm dangled from the side. It didn’t take a medical degree to know the man hadn’t survived his wounds. It’s not bad. He lied, but in comparison, he couldn’t complain. 

The moment he answered, she asked to free the bed for somebody else. His butt had barely left when a man with a missing leg was dropped onto the mattress and a doctor and nurse began their work.

The injured on cots outnumbered the volunteers at least two to one. As a doctor yelled for assistance, Conthan watched Errick, a former Bostonian spring into service. Resting his hands over the injured Marine’s abdomen, he performed whatever his powers allowed him to do and stumbled as the power drained from him. The Corps relying on a Child of Nostradamus to help save their soldiers. 

The pessimist in Conthan subsided as he started teleporting doctors from one tent to the next. He wouldn’t save them all, but one, he could help save at least one.

Dwayne’s hand brushed against his. His mind left one hell to return to another. As their fingers snaked together, he had a moment of reprieve, a shining moment in a world filled with hurt and death. He had to fight away the pressing thoughts of gloom, the worry that someday it might be the man he loved tucked inside that white shroud.

The big lug squeezed his fingers. They weren’t the only ones finding comfort in one another. Jasmine’s beau had his hand resting comfortably in the middle of her back, and Skits, Alyssa, and Gretchen shared an embrace. Even Needles stood in close proximity to Soo Jung and Adelaide. Conthan didn’t need to be an empath to know they were hurting. But unlike the rest, Twenty-Seven stood alone.

They waited for minutes, nobody willing to break the rhythm of the rain to begin the last rites for their fallen comrade. In the distance, guns fired— an organized burst, a pause, then another. While the Children mourned for the loss of their companion, the military held a similar farewell for their fallen General.

Should we say something? asked Dwayne.

Twenty-Seven slowly turned, her hair matted to the side of her face. Despite the onslaught of rain, the red of her eyes gave away crying. Conthan recalled how he had wept after Sarah died. He’d reached a point where his eyes ran dry, but he couldn’t stop sobbing. He suspected Twenty-Seven would experience the same thing he had: once the tears faded, the anger raging beneath the surface would spill over.

Ariel Davis… Twenty-Seven paused, choking on the woman’s name. Ariel Davis may have died, but her legacy lives on. From before the moment Eleanor intervened, Ariel has done everything in her power to make the world a better place. And powerful she was. The only thing stronger than her mind was her drive to protect those who could not protect themselves. That is the legacy she leaves behind.

Twenty-Seven wiped the hair from her face. Not a spot on her remained dry, but despite the downpour, she spoke with a fire. After Sarah’s death, Conthan had murdered a man to retaliate against an unjust God. Twenty-Seven maintained an iron composure, her words forged from longing, not anger.

We are her legacy. Less a statement and more of a plea.

Ariel, I|we see you, yelled Adelaide.

That phrase. Conthan winced. He wasn’t sure what to think when it came to the cult-like organization. Their belief system was found on worshipping Children like gods, and right now, he felt anything but godly. Eleanor Valentine served as their Mother Mary, bestowing the world with powered beings. While he appreciated Adelaide and her brethren for giving people hope, the idea continued to make him feel uneasy.

We fight for Ariel.

It dawned on Conthan: each of the Nighthawks had lost somebody to this senseless power struggle. They lied to themselves, claiming to be fighting for a better tomorrow. Tomorrow was a byproduct, but only that. They each fought for those they loved, and those they lost along the way. Conthan feared that death’s list contained more unclaimed names.

For Michael, he yelled.

Dwayne clenched his fist tightly enough it hurt. From just within his peripheral vision, the man smiled at him. For Sarah, he added.

For Jonah. Conthan nearly choked as Jasmine honored her one-time archnemesis. If she could forgive a man for stealing her free will, perhaps the flame of hope persisted.

For Jed, added Gretchen.

For Dav5d, yelled Needles.

Conthan watched as Twenty-Seven’s jaw hardened. Remorse and regret washed away with the rain. Reaching into a pants pocket, she produced a thin red object with a white cap. Flipping the end off, she struck it against her jeans, causing it to shower red sparks. She raised her hand, dragging out the action for dramatic effect.

For Vanessa! the woman yelled toward the sky.

Her fingers loosened and the flare rushed to the soggy pieces torn from the boardwalk. Flames erupted from the wooden planks and the fire zigged and zagged, following a path of invisible gasoline. For a moment, it seemed to rush under the pyre and vanish. A blast of heat exploded outward as the interior ignited, sending chemically induced flames into the air. The fire pushed away the rain, sending steam into the air with a loud hiss. 

Currently the military were scattered across the parks of Chicago, as search and destroy crews terminating the last of the synthetics. Somewhere in New York City a madman wore Vanessa’s skin and if they were lucky, the crews would find him. 

Twenty-Seven started walking toward them. The fire at her back was the perfect summary of the burning housed within their newfound leader.

Conthan dared to ask the question they were all thinking. What next? 

When it had just been a handful of them, it had been about snap decisions and precision attacks. Now, with a literal army at their back, he had no idea what step came next.

We’re going to war. 

It wasn’t her statement that made the hair on his neck stand on end. The cold and distant look on Twenty-Seven’s face nearly froze his heart. They might be preparing for a war, but in her head, he knew she was already dissecting methods of killing her own nemesis. The Warden is going to die.

The anger had spilled over.

Chapter One

2033

Needles, where are my screens? Twenty-Seven stared at a smooth, blank wall. The night before, the military command had been wiped clean by a possessed socialite. The dead had been removed, but the shattered window where Lillian hurled Ivan’s puppet through the glass remained empty, wind whipping through the space.

I’m using outdated computers, crappy hardware, and little access to my software, he said. Word had gone out to the soldiers for anybody with computer training to report to the tower, but only Needles and a handful of his underground team punched at the buttons. You seem to think it takes a few taps on the screen. Sure, I’ll just hack into a series of private foreign satellites so you can make a phone call. I’m not a miracle worker.

Twenty-Seven wasn’t a fan of the man. His ego wounded far too easily and the bragging about his uncanny abilities put her in mind of an obnoxious lover who relied on the size of his manhood to get the job done. 

The screens flashed on, displaying six very large rectangles. She tucked her emotions away in a tightly sealed box. If she stopped acting, she’d have time to dwell. She wasn’t sure if, once she started unpacking those compartments, she’d be able to rebound. The Warden was free, and it had become her responsibility to continue pushing forward. 

Are you ready for this? Jasmine wore the infamous red jumper assigned to her by the General. Behind her, the members of her squad stood at attention, ready to make a display of confidence.

No.

She had difficulty remembering the winding path that brought her here. The woman that murdered her husband in self-defense had died and been reborn into the protector, Twenty-Seven. Last night, once again, she perished, a part of her identity vanishing as she clung to Ariel’s broken body. As she barked orders to Azacca, commanding the efforts of the military below, a new stage of her identity formed. This would be the first moment she tested her position.

Each of the screens flickered and six people filled the screens. They lacked most commonalities, including in gender and race, but the high-definition screens revealed the same hand stitching and finely woven silk ties on each one. Diverse, except for the fact that they were all upper class.

Who are you? Where is the General? 

 Jasmine had briefed Twenty-Seven on each of the members. The black woman who asked the question was Leslie Dubois, a Silicon Valley executive with a vested interest in global communication networks. She spoke for the committee, the group of individuals who oversaw the segregation of the country. Six people controlling one of the largest fighting forces in the world.

I… Twenty-Seven froze.

How did you access our network? I demand answers.

I am Twenty-Seven. Jonah, the General, was murdered last night in a confrontation with Jacob Griffin, a puppet of Ivan Valkov, a mentalist.

 Leslie wasted no time asserting her control of the situation. We will dispatch command to oversee the reacquisition of assets and return them to California before we assess our next plan of action.

The woman, a civilian, one who had never experienced a day of battle, had the audacity to claim a position of power over the military. Twenty-Seven didn’t want to make assumptions, but she questioned if the woman had ever experienced a day of hardship in her life. Did this war impact her in any place other than the wallet?

I have assumed command over the remaining military residing in Chicago, Twenty-Seven said. We are currently seeing to the wounded while teams are on search and destroy missions for the remaining synthetics. A recon team has been assigned to gather intel on Volkov.

We appreciate your field command; we will be taking control of this situation.

Jasmine Gentile reporting, ma’am. As the ranking officer, Twenty-Seven has been given a field promotion. She will be overseeing this operation until our efforts have concluded.

One of the men on the screen gave a slight chuckle. I see the barcode. Do you honestly think we’ll allow a criminal to oversee our forces?

The council’s faces turned to condescending smirks. With a field filled with the dying and dead, these six individuals thought they could run a war like a corporation. How had the General navigated their naivete? 

I’m giving you one chance to—

Are you threatening us? A woman wearing a pearl necklace spoke. You commit treason; for that alone we could have you put to death.

Conthan. Twenty-Seven didn’t let the irritation cross her face. She would not let them have even the smallest of victories. Twenty-Seven understood the power at her beck and call, partnering that understanding with a humble acceptance that she was nothing without those around her. These rich untouchables believed their wealth awarded them security. In a world burning to the ground, security was an illusion, and she’d gladly teach them this lesson.

Leslie leaned toward the camera, attempting to intimidate. Jasmine Gentile, you will be tried for your crimes against the Republic. Twenty-Seven, you will be tried for your crimes against the Republic. Any military siding with you will be dealt with as—

A hand came into view, resting on Leslie’s shoulder. The woman shrieked as she spun about. Skits waved at the camera. Hi, boss. 

Resist and you will be found guilty of treason. Twenty-Seven’s tone left no room for negotiation.

How dare— the sneering gentleman turned, and Dwayne stood in the frame of the camera. Behind him, a black disc hung in the air. Similar scenes filled each of the cameras. Alyssa, Adelaide, Brass and Cooper stood as guardians, not threatening the committee, but reminding them of the adversary they stood against.

The Children of Nostradamus are to be feared, but they are not our enemies, Twenty-Seven said. Without them, the Republic will fall.

Leslie’s resolve faded the moment she realized her secluded Californian mansion had been compromised. What do you want from us?

This is not a coup. Twenty-Seven folded her arms behind her back, standing exactly how the General had. This partnership remains as long as we establish a chain of command. We are not the enemy. Cecelia Joyce, Jacob Griffin, and Ivan Volkov are the enemy. I need the military to continue its efforts against the synthetic armies. But our target is a single individual with more power than a hoard of machines.

She continued speaking as Gretchen blinked into sight next to her. You may have gathered that I have weapons at my disposal the military could never anticipate. I am offering you an opportunity to lend your resources and be on the correct side of history. Do you agree with this partnership, or do we have to discuss alternative options?

The privilege washed away from each of their faces. The threat was subtle, but she was more than prepared to command Skits to take the woman prisoner. Pleasantries had no place in war, and the woman’s next words were going to set the tone for Twenty-Seven’s command.

Partnership.

Good. Now let’s get to work. Conthan, we need eyes in New York. 

The black disc opened behind Jasmine’s men. Vazquez and Murdock, their most skilled snipers, hugged their rifles as they stepped through the portal. Twenty-Seven feared their blind obedience would lead to catastrophe, another massacre like Troy. She could only hope that in the months since she oversaw the small town, she had grown enough to stand up to the hardships that were about to land at her feet. 

Soldiers were going to die, her soldiers. 

Ivan found himself on the roof of the Society’s New York office building. He’d lost track of how long he perched on the edge, overlooking the bustling metropolis below. The white noise of human thoughts peppered the edge of his mind. 

Millions of people moved about the city, entirely unaware of the massacre unleashed on the government. The Society was already at work, controlling any news that came out of Chicago. With the dismantling of the military communications network, his technicians were already destroying entire areas of the cyber world, bringing down immense sections of the internet.

The nails of his prosthetic tore at the steel antenna atop the building, leaving curled strips of metal. He barely recalled the technician he had possessed and forced to fit him with a hand from the Body Shop. The man’s brains were fried, the information fractured and scattered, a byproduct of Ivan stripping away his individuality. A lesser telepath wouldn’t be capable of making sense of his technical know-how. Despite the awkward alien body he occupied, the newfound abilities granted to him by bonding with Vanessa bordered on godly.

God. While he defeated the only woman who stood a chance of competing with his prowess, he’d lost a battle against humans. One of the largest synthetic processing plants had been taken offline and a huge percentage of the assets at his disposal had fallen prey to the wretch Ariel and her pet human. The young telekinetic perished at the hand of her lover. He claimed victory over the one person to ever escape his machinations. Jonah, Ariel, and ultimately Vanessa had all submitted to his dominance. There wasn’t a single living being on the planet capable of defeating him now.

As the Warden, he spent decades in a holding pattern, seeking ways to resurrect his decaying body. He amassed a small army of Children and one by one he infiltrated their minds, consuming them. The emergence of these people with abilities had intrigued him; their natural resistance to his gifts served as a thin barrier in need of breaking.

It wasn’t until the fateful day Conthan arrived at the prison that Ivan discovered a telepath worthy of his attention. The Angel’s abilities were raw, untapped, and with his tutelage, capable of transcending even his. However, she remained restrained by her inability to set aside morals. Ivan pursued an even more delicious victory in tamed telepath.

Weakness. The woman could have risen to be a titan amongst men, but she preferred to scurry amongst the roaches. He offered her a partnership, a chance to rule by his side; when she refused, he found domination even more arousing. Holding up her hand of flesh, he smiled, knowing the woman’s psyche, buried deep within his mind, watched through eyes she no longer controlled.

The Children who stole his vessel’s hand were nothing more than an annoyance. He imagined the screams trapped inside their skulls as he stripped away their humanity, one memory after another. He’d leave enough awareness so they understood their bodies belonged to him. He relished the idea of reaching into their broken psyches and listening to their pleas for release.

Somewhere within this vessel, under lock and key, Vanessa’s psyche remained silent. Jacob’s whining and screams to be freed had been far more gratifying. It might not have happened yet, but eventually, Vanessa would succumb to despair and then he’d begin toying with his prey. He awaited the moment he could relish her panic.

As he stood on the ledge of the building, the wind pushed hard enough he needed to grip the girder with his talons. The woman’s body was large and bulky, unlike the tall, thin frame he originally wore. In some ways she resembled Mark Davis, thick, muscular, but the strength woven into each of her muscles was far superior. As the wind pulled at his wings, he found himself curious about the benefits.

The bat-like appendages responded like arms without hands. He stretched only a few inches before the wind pulled, threatening to lift him from the roof. Goosebumps raced along his arms, a bit of euphoria at the possibilities.

The woman might be locked away, but the determination pushed outward, reminding Ivan to keep up his guard. I don’t think so, Angel.

Flight, a practical method of transportation for a gargoyle-human hybrid, was a place of empowerment for Vanessa. She didn’t control the vessel, but she prodded at his mind, attempting to wrest even the most basic of instincts from him.

But, my dear Angel, I see the beauty. We are not so different you and I. Here, above the humans, we… he paused at the statement, catching himself on his own words. "I am like Zeus, residing above mortal men. With the coming of the proverbial flood, a simple force of nature, they will perish."

Ivan knelt down again, his attention focused on a street three blocks away. Where his eyes faltered, his mind shot forward, extending his sight until he caught a young man walking along, hands nestled in the pockets of his hoodie. The invisible force with which he struck the kid decimated his mind. Memories evaporated and the will to live vanished, leaving him an empty vessel.

I can sense them all, Angel. Each stray thought, each beat of their hearts. Millions of reasons to exist and…

Ivan closed his eyes, dropping the natural barrier between his private space and the chaos of so many individuals. The white noise turned to a dull roar and grew until he found himself in the center of a storm with no beginning and no end. He’d been able to track dozens of individuals before Jacob, and with the pompous boy’s gifts, he’d found that hundreds, perhaps even thousands, were within his field of influence. Geography no longer mattered; with only a modicum of focus, he proved capable of transcending distance as if it were mere steps away. But now…

As the thoughts penetrated every pore of his being, he parsed millions of emotions crashing over him—hopes, fears, longings, aspirations. Alone, the ocean of human experiences might have drowned him, sweeping away his identity. Yet he was not alone. With a push, a ripple fought back against the tide. Snaking along every thought he pulled into himself, he found himself reaching into the minds of an entire city.

New York took a collective breath as he violated its people. The pressure at the base of his skull pushed until his vision narrowed, turning the night’s sky nearly pitch black. They, humans, the roaches, did nothing to stop him. The pathetic ignorance of what was being done perpetuated his belief they were less than worthy. The strain only came from sifting through the information, the thoughts, the feelings.

One by one, he flipped the switch, obliterating their individuality. Higher brain function ceased and only the primal parts of their identity existed. He laughed at his creation of a million modern-day zombies.

He imagined a bomb exploding, the concussive force thrusting outward, along the thoughts tethered to his mind. It didn’t happen one at a time; in an instant, blocks and boroughs were torn apart, the humans inhabiting the city reduced to nothing more than husks. Even the Barren had the most basic of survival skills. New York City fell by the millions, its citizens turned into rabid beasts, animals waiting for him to give meaning to their existence.

The headache reminded him of the ones he had as a child, migraines threatening to cripple him as his powers sought an outlet. At that time, even possessing the neighbor boy was a feat of extreme endurance. Now, one of the greatest cities in the world was nothing more than his toy. He accepted the exertion, even the headache, a momentary reminder that he had yet to ascend into Godhood, and that he still had goals to obtain. 

An entire city fell. Soon his powers would be limitless…

Or will they? whispered a woman.

Chapter Two

2013

Starvation is not an option.

The hunting knife sliced through flesh and scraped bone. The manubrium, the space just above the sternum and beneath the Adam’s apple, separated like a welcoming sheath for it. Raymond’s hand ached from how hard he had gripped the handle as he turned it, slowly, deliberately, taking pleasure in his victim’s demise.

Not even the sound of gurgling as blood pumped out of his neck caused a shiver. Leaning in close, Raymond could smell the sweet and putrid odor of poor dental hygiene. The man’s eyes refused to blink. Raymond expected him to panic, perhaps to show remorse, but the hate in the dying man’s narrowed eyes made the hair on his arm stand on end.

Raymond? You’re doing it again.

A floral scent penetrated the memory, and Raymond shook his head. The bloodied man dissolved, replaced by a woman five years older than him. For a split second, the images overlapped, and Raymond tensed, worried he had hurt his bedmate. Caroline held a cell phone in her lap where she sat cross-legged on the blankets. 

What? Huh?

You were whimpering. You were having another nightmare. What was it this time?

He ran through the list. A dead mother? Murderous father? Crazed telepath who slaughtered his family while he watched? One time or another they had each forced him upright in bed, caught in a continuous loop of atrocious memories. This time it had been nothing so disturbing— no telepaths or murdering parents, just a man pinned to a brick wall by a knife, dying with malice etched on his face.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes, accepting it would be another early morning. Raymond threw back the covers and was spinning to get out of bed when her hand grasped his upper arm. The way the shadow caught her features, her dimples appeared like holes. Her expression, even in the dim light, demanded that he do the one thing he didn’t want to: confess.

Somebody tried to steal my rucksack while scavenging.

Starvation is not an option. Caroline repeated the scavenger motto, a creed they lived by to survive in a world that labelled them as disposable. Yet her firm grip around his bicep signaled for him to continue.

I killed him.

Another person might have tried to console him. Caroline, the resident doctor for the power plant, was a little more abrasive when she didn’t have her clipboard or bottles of pills in her pockets. She treated patients with a graceful pleasantness, but she had a fight in her. He stole your shit, serves him right.

He’d kill the man again. Raymond swore he’d kill anybody who threatened his people. No matter the options he had at his disposal, the man tried to steal food from the mouths of the people Raymond protected. A memory flashed in his mind, the image of his father stabbing his mother. He got up before it could take hold.

Don’t get out of bed. Caroline tossed herself back onto the mattress. Her eyes flashed in the light; batting eyelashes tried to tempt him back under the covers.

I need to clear my head.

You sure? She lifted her shirt over her head, flashing her breasts. She peeked over the collar, giving him a suggestive glance.

Tempting, he said.

Go, she said, burying her face in the pillow. I’m sleeping until the sun comes up. 

Raymond pulled the blanket up over her body as she nuzzled herself into the corner. He slid on his boots and grabbed his rucksack, sliding the killing blade into his boot. With the old hunting rifle slung across his shoulders, he started for the door of their makeshift bedroom.

Don’t think you’re skipping your checkup.

Fuck.

The glass door with cardboard taped to the window closed behind him. The administrative offices at the power plant lined a long hallway. Every door held cardboard blocking the view, giving the couples and families some semblance of privacy. A sheet hung from the ceiling, covering a series of windows that once looked into a conference room. It wasn’t as nice as the houses he scavenged, but the building provided relief from the radiation.

The sheer size of the room that held the reactor could have housed another few hundred refugees. Even with the thousands of pipes running from the ceiling into the ground surrounding the reactor, there was still plenty of space for the residents to have their space away from one another. The catwalk overlooking the reactor had lights hanging every twenty feet, making it easy to see the metal grates beneath his shoes, but not nearly bright enough to fight back the vastness of the room.

Raymond eased open a door to a short hallway that led to the control room. Unlike in the offices, most of the people huddled under blankets on mattresses on the floor here were children. They separated the youngest children and occasional infant to give the workers a chance to sleep. Raymond imagined the kids thought it was one big pajama party.

Reclining in an oversized chair, one of the guards nodded off, his eyes unable to stay open. Raymond hated diaper duty; the kids with their lack of boundaries and incessant questions made him cringe. Several adults slept soundly next to the children, surrogates for the orphans or kids with sick parents. Even the guard with his rifle leaning against the chair held a young toddler curled on his lap. 

When Raymond flipped on the light on his shoulder strap, a faint red glow helped him navigate around toys and stray limbs jutting from blankets. It took a moment of scouring the beds before he found the familiar pigtails. Moving as if the faintest sound might trigger a cascade of screaming infants, he reached into a pouch on the side of his rucksack. The ribbed surface of the can had been the first clue before further inspection revealed a company stamp on the bottom.

He quietly knelt, aware of his boots creaking as the leather stretched and moved. Pulling back the comforter, he attempted to hide the can so the tiny girl would find it before anybody else. He paused as two giant eyes stared at him over the edge of the blanket.

Shit, he thought, busted.

Shhh, don’t tell anybody. Even the whisper tore through the room, loud enough that he feared the wailing of disturbed infants might begin.

The eyes disappeared under the cover for a moment, rustling around until the little lump reached the can. Even in the dark, she knew. The tiny squeal was everything she could do to contain her excitement. Raymond pulled back the blankets to see her clutching the can to her chest.

Skeet-ee-o-s. She tried to whisper, tried to contain her excitement, but in a nuclear wasteland, simple pleasures like SpaghettiOs were something most kids only dreamed of. He held a finger to his lips, trying to keep her from busting out into an appreciative yell.

You know the rule, he said.

At the mention of the hated rules, she looked disgusted in only the way a small child could. Raymond pushed out his bottom lip, attempting to use his best kid-friendly intimidation. The rules, he whispered again.

Fine, I’ll share ‘em.

Raymond pulled the blanket back up to her neck, just as he had done with Caroline. With a tap on her nose, she closed her eyes, the can firmly nestled against her chest. The scavengers weren’t supposed to play favorites when it came to rations. Yet the girl’s delighted squeal had absolved him of the sins he committed last night and ones he’d surely commit again.

A rapping at the door drew his attention. The silhouette through the tinted glass stood straight, broad shoulders and thick torso giving away the camp’s elected leader. Raymond stole one last glance at the tiny girl. On his way out the door, he noticed her mom sitting upright in bed. The girl’s mother didn’t speak a word, instead nodding her head slightly. Raymond ignored the gesture and exited.

Another run in?

Gruff, the man’s voice personified his physical traits. For the last fourteen years, this man had been his caretaker. Roderick had only been a teenager when Raymond arrived at the plant. Roderick did his best. He was fair, just, and even an okay father figure. But when Raymond announced he wanted to be a scavenger, Roderick approved, despite the obvious dangers. It served as the only work detail that routinely ventured into unchartered territory filled with the degenerates of society. Raymond had wanted the available slot. Roderick frequently said Raymond had potential, but the anger festering beneath the surface either needed temperament or an outlet. Roderick provided him an outlet.

I handled it.

Years ago, it might have been a fight, or at least a fatherly Be more careful. As Raymond had grown into a man, Roderick grew into a leader. He respected their differences, one of the attributes that won him an almost unanimous vote from the camp. Raymond didn’t need to explain; the sadness in the man’s eyes spoke louder than even his gruff voice could muster.

Starvation is not an— started Raymond.

Don’t quote a motto at me. I was one of the first scavengers. Roderick locked eyes. Raymond knew the moment he turned away from Roderick, he had lost the competition for dominance. It wasn’t shame, not exactly, but a tinge of disappointment wafted off the man.

Sorry.

Roderick put his hands on Raymond’s shoulders and pulled him close, their foreheads touching. With anybody else, it’d be an awkward intimate huddle. It was a signature Roderick gesture, a way he reminded people they were more than discards from society. In a world forgotten by the average American, Roderick made sure they each knew their worth.

Spaghetti? Roderick’s smile stretched across his lips.

The tension in Raymond’s shoulders fell away at the single statement. Roderick had a gift for disarming tense situations. For a man his size, it was a weapon he wielded with precision.

Yeah. I know we’re not—

Who do you think gave her a can opener?

Food remained scarce, and to prevent people from hoarding and threatening one another, Roderick demanded they dine as a community. Line cooks dished out the daily rations, making sure that every person was treated as equal. Those who could spare half a ration provided it to the young and sick. Acts of kindness were rewarded. Roderick made sure the dismal wasteland of a radiated New England didn’t seep into their souls.

Roderick was just, fair, but most of all, he was kind.

Exorcise your demons, do what must be done. Make sure you’re the last man standing. Always. But remember, that little girl in there—she’s the reason we do what we do.

Raymond’s chest tightened, the convulsion working its way into the back of his throat. The man knew exactly how to push Raymond’s buttons. Even when he thought the tether holding his humanity had been severed, Roderick managed to throw him a lifeline.

How do you always have hope? The words were quiet. Raymond believed if he spoke softly enough, between the two of them, his fear might not manifest. He tried to focus on the girl holding the can to her chest, but the image of the blood pouring down his arm as the Outlander died with hate in his eyes haunted his thoughts.

I don’t. But I remember the four-year-old boy I once fought for.

Raymond pulled the man close, embracing him tightly. He was far from being a hugger, but he couldn’t let Roderick see the tears rolling down his face. For a moment, Raymond thought back to the many nights he cried himself to sleep as a child.

Have faith, Raymond.

I’m trying. 

Good. Roderick pulled back and patted him on the cheek. "Now remember that, because she just arrived."

His muscles tensed and a waterfall of anger drowned the momentary glimpse of hope. He’d known it was only a matter of time, but today he was in no mood to deal with the years of emotional baggage accompanying each visit from his absentee foster mom.

Chapter Three

2033

Twenty-Seven knocked the back of her head against the wall in frustration. The penthouse suite had been transformed into sleeping quarters for the Paladins, her personal guards. When she exited the meeting with the security committee, they refused to leave her side. Despite her protests, Jasmine assured her she had become one of the most valuable assets in the war against the Warden.

Each person she encountered since leaving the meeting had stopped to salute. She politely nodded in return, leaving them unsure of how to continue. Sims had whispered in her ear that it was protocol for her to salute in return. They bestowed their respect upon her, and she didn’t even know how to return gratitude. She wondered if Sims’s detail was more explaining protocol than about protection. 

Her team had executed the plan precisely. The security committee was nothing