Ceramic DM Winter 07 (Final Judgment Posted)
- Thread starter yangnome
- Start date
Herremann the Wise
First Post
Are you sure? I sent the first three in order. Don't tell me those damn imps are playing tricks on me again.yangnome said:
Mythago, while I'm sure you think it's funny to bribe imps and yes, they are all too easily coaxed and bent to one's will, I still feel that getting them to express deliver your judgment is not right! And yeah... getting them all to vote for you isn't that nice either!
Anyway, that's it. I'm getting to the bottom of this. I know which imps will be next in the Gnopf's reserve projector.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Best Regards
Herremann the Wise
orchid blossom
Explorer
yangnome said:
That one will be in from me tomorrow, and since I'm on the east coast probably long before you get home from work.
Since the evil virus had slain poor Aris, I did the Piratecat/BSF matchup first.
Graywolf-ELM
Explorer
mythago said:
Thanks Mythago. When I read your story, I already knew the result. Out in the first round.
Great feedback from all three judges. No laundry list of excuses. It was fun. It did encourage me to write again.
My original idea was to have the dancing be something that the Princess would have to learn, to show that she was serious about becoming a consort to the King in their country. My ideas panned out to being more than I ended up with time for to bring to the story. I wanted to hint at something more to the princess, but not reveal it until the final scene.
If I can find the time, I'll expand on this entry as an exercise for myself. The reviews will help me make it better as well.
Thank you, again, it has been fun. Now I just get to read and enjoy.
GW
Berandor
lunatic
Thanks be the judges!
Seriously, very good feedback once again, I'll try and take it to heart for round 2. Speaking of which, is there already a proposed schedule, or do you plan to wait until the whole first round is judged?
This correlates with some comments in the judgement to make me feel like I played it safe (this time?). Perhaps the next batch of pics will help me stretch a little more.
What's also interesting that I really can't remember writing a short story with a first person point of view outside of Ceramic DM; I use figural narrative almost exclusively. But in Ceramic DM, I slip into that mode quite often.
Seriously, very good feedback once again, I'll try and take it to heart for round 2. Speaking of which, is there already a proposed schedule, or do you plan to wait until the whole first round is judged?
You realize there are only two options now? Either I will only write p.i. stories as long as I last in this competition, or I'll write no more of them to diversify. I hadn't noticed such a trend, but it could be true because it gives the protagonist a nice shorthand motivation to follow the plot.yangnome said:
This correlates with some comments in the judgement to make me feel like I played it safe (this time?). Perhaps the next batch of pics will help me stretch a little more.
What's also interesting that I really can't remember writing a short story with a first person point of view outside of Ceramic DM; I use figural narrative almost exclusively. But in Ceramic DM, I slip into that mode quite often.
Well, I'd be willing to share it (once I went over the draft a final time), but it's written in German, so... I don't know.tadk said:
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Drawmack
First Post
Berandor said:
And I will respond to your response.
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I was going for tounge in cheeck and really playing up the boring aspect of detective work. Taking what is a very interesting case and making it too easy. Remember his opening line about detective work being boring.
Yeah, I probably could have wasted a few words explaining these things. I'm always scared of boring the judges with description and tend to focus more on keeping the action going.
I agree, being my first story in this genre I focused more on the genre elements and that may hurt me in ceramic dm, but probably helped me overall as a writer.
On this, I miscalculated and thought my story was due yesterday. Just me pulling a stupid.
I appreciate the honestness of your critique and thank you for it. While reading negative things about ones work is always difficult the temperment with which you write them uses just enough sugar to keep the ire down but still gets the point across. Thank you.
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Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
Round 1 Match 6 -- Rodrigo Istalindir - "The Things We Do for Love"
“The stuff I told you to bring – you got it?” I barked, as I blinded them with my flashlight.
Two women came to an abrupt halt. The blonde was curvy in all the right places, shoulder-length hair included. I knew those curves all too well, and for a moment I considered dumping this job and heading for the hills. Dammit, Gretchen, why’d you have to call me?
The blonde’s companion was skinny, with short dark hair. Her, I knew only by reputation.
Puppet-like, two arms stretched towards me, clear plastic bags in white-knuckled grips. I switched off the light and grabbed the offerings. One bag held a large quantity of cash. I hefted it, judged it sufficient for the job at hand, and tucked the rubber band wrapped bundle into my coat pocket.
“This way. Quickly,” I growled, “and quietly.”
Footsteps crunched desiccated leaves as we worked our way into the park. During the summer months, this was a popular hangout with the lovey-dovey set. Walks in the park turned into impromptu games of hopscotch as strollers dodged empty beer cans and discarded prophylactics. In the dark of winter, though, it was deserted.
Still, despite the weather, its sordid reputation would help sell the story. Experience had taught me, too, that the local constabulary would rush through processing the crime scene and hasten indoors to warm themselves with liquid heat.
“Here,” I said, gesturing to a park bench. One of my new companions squeaked, a high-pitched yip that sounded like someone had stepped on a mouse. Two bodies sat, propped upright on the battered stone.
“Right- or left-handed,” I called out to the dark-haired one. There was no answer. I looked back at the pair. They stood immobile, staring at the macabre tableau. It seemed the reality of the situation had caught them off-guard.
I repeated my question, and got an answer. I pulled two cheap rings from the bags and slid them on frigid fingers. A favorite scarf went around one neck, a gold strand around the other. I dropped a DVD into an empty planter that rested between the stiffs. A few minutes work and the bags were empty.
I retreated into the underbrush and fetched a metal gas can. I showered my unfortunate ‘victims’ and stepped back. I stretched an arm towards the blonde, empty hand cupping an ear and pulling back with a flickering match.
Maybe I’m a bit of a show-off, I thought, but the bonus points for style were good for business.
I tossed the match at the stiffs and watched impassively as they burst into flame. In minutes, the charred remains were recognizable as ‘once human’ and little more. (Picture 3) It wouldn’t fool a dedicated forensic analysis, I knew, but it would take weeks for DNA or dental comparisons. I was confident that the half-burned physical evidence from the baggies would give the cops an excuse to take the easy way out. The video suicide ‘note’ on the DVD would play right into their expectations.
“Let’s get going. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
“Sam and I, we’re so grateful, you don’t know…” Gretchen stammered.
I cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“No names, no talking. Move.”
*
Hours later, I pulled off to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. Winter had blessed the countryside with a snowy benediction, and while the main roads were clear, the backwoods trail I’d been planning on taking was still covered. I wasn’t worried about the car –I’d rented a real SUV, not one of those yuppified pretend ones – but one the off-chance that someone tracked us this far, our trail would be obvious.
I toyed briefly with taking my backup route, but that would entail an extra couple of hours of driving, and my ass was sore. I figured the odds of anyone tracking us were small, despite the ubiquitous GPS transponder embedded in the engine block. Disabling it would have been safer, but it was also a ‘D’ felony now, and it wasn’t worth the risk.
I glanced over my shoulder at pair in the back seat. Sound asleep, mercifully. Sam had tried unsuccessfully to engage me in conversation for the first hundred miles. Finally, her Gretchen had whispered something in her ear and the constant stream of words trickled to a halt.
I reached into a backpack lying on the passenger seat and retrieved a pair of goggles. Early-century military surplus, the night vision goggles weren’t nearly as effective as the newer models, but they were cheap and they were mostly legit, on loan from a licensed PI friend. I slipped them over my head and turned them on. The white landscape turned a harsh green.
I pulled the SUV off the asphalt and headed into the countryside. A mile or two later, a gentle but unexpected caress nearly sent the car careening into a tree.
“Kinda busy here, Gretch.”
“I thought you said ‘no names’,” she teased.
I remained silent and concentrated on the road. Or, more precisely, the lack of a road.
“You can’t know how much I appreciate this, Charlie,” she continued after a long pause. “When father found out we were planning to get married, he pulled strings. Our passports were revoked, and now we’re on the ‘watch list’ at the border.”
I gave a non-committal grunt.
I’d thought Gretch and I would be together forever, with that kind of innocent conviction only the young and stupid can muster. Her leaving had broken my heart; her leaving me for another woman had turned me mean and bitter. The subsequent three years had done little to dull the edge.
I still wasn’t sure why I’d agreed to do this. Gretchen’s father, Paul Dempsey, was connected in a lot of different and dangerous ways. I’d worked for him, for a while, and learned a lot. Eventually, I learned too much, and struck out on my own after Gretchen left.
I’d always gotten the impression that he liked me, but that wouldn’t mean jack if I got between him and his daughter.
I’d buried myself in my work, crossing the line between legal and illegal until eventually I’d forgotten when I’d been an honest guy. The human trafficking was just the tip of the iceberg. The pretty, clean, shiny white tip that drew the attention away from the mass below the waterline.
“You’re still a good man, Charlie.”
I started to utter some insincere objection when the tires blew out.
The SUV fishtailed badly. I wrenched the wheel into the skid, praying the metal rims beneath the shredded rubber didn’t grab the road too hard and send us tumbling. With a crunch, the metal behemoth came to rest against a pine tree. All three of us started to exhale in relief when something thudded heavily onto the roof. Panic nearly set in until I realized it was just snow shaken loose from the boughs by the impact.
“Everyone all right?” I asked. Shaky voices answered in the affirmative. “Good. Stay here till I tell you otherwise.”
I crawled out the passenger side and tumbled into the snow. There was no wind, and the winter air felt surprisingly mild. For now, anyway. I reached back and grabbed my pack,. I shuffled through the calf-deep snow to the back of the vehicle and opened the hatch.
“Grab your coats and stuff and get ready to move. We’re going to have to hoof it the rest of the way,” I called to the passengers.
I rummaged through the back of the car and grabbed enough supplies to fill the backpack. We were about 10 miles inside the border, but the remote cabin I used as a way-station on the other side wasn’t much further than that. Three, four hours, and we’d be home free.
I walked back to the road and looked around. Something metallic glinted in the road a hundred feet back, so while Gretchen and Sam got their together I went to investigate.
Twisted across the road like a cybernetic snake lay a long strand of tire spikes.
I charged back towards the car as fast as I could.
“Come on, let’s get going. Leave the rest of the crap, it’s not important.”
Sam seemed a little pissed, but Gretchen knew me well enough to sense when I was worried. She didn’t say anything, just dropped the small duffel she’d been lugging and pulled Sam along.
The tire spikes meant the Border Patrol was suspicious about this trail. I didn’t hear a helicopter, so they probably didn’t have the area under active surveillance. Probably just threw the wire out there as a precaution. Still, they had other resources at their disposal.
An hour later, one of those resources found us.
*
We’d made surprisingly good time. I decided that speed was more important than stealth. The BP had the best technology government could buy, but more to the point, if we took too long or got lost, we’d likely die of exposure before they found us.
A plaintive howl made the prospect of freezing to death seem not so bad. Gretchen and Sam looked at me, panic plain on their faces.
“Wolf?” Gretchen asked. “They’re afraid of people, aren’t they?”
“No, it’s not a wolf. And no, it’s not afraid of us.”
I stuck the tip of one gloved finger in my mouth and tugged my hand free. I reached inside my coat and pulled the pistol from its holster. The .9mm Glock was an oldie but a goodie, easy to find parts and ammo for, and essentially untraceable.
I stood in the middle of the road and turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky. Sam looked at me, puzzled. Gretchen let out a shout and tackled her, covering her with her body. Something slammed into me from behind, knocking me to the ground. The gun tumbled from my grasp and disappeared into the snow.
A low growl brought me back to my senses. The creature crouched a thirty feet away, a genetic abomination whipped up with DNA from an owl and a wolf and god knows what else. I took a slow breath and looked for my pistol, staying as motionless as possible.
Gretchen started to rise, and the beast howled and fluttered its wings. She froze.
“What the hell is that?” she hissed.
“It’s called an owolf. They made them to patrol the remote sections of the border. It’s got the eyesight of an owl, the sense of smell of a wolf, and can subsist off the land indefinitely.”
“Oh, god,” she whimpered. “It’s going to eat us, isn’t it?”
“Probably not. They’re trained like guard dogs, to intimidate and corral people until the BPs arrive.”
I didn’t tell her that the training wasn’t always successful. The owolf may have gotten senses from two different animals, but it got ‘mean’ from both.
“Could be worse,” I laughed. “If we were in Arizona, it’d be a conyote.”
“Why would that be worse?” Sam asked.
“They’re three times the size.”
I spotted the break in the snow crust where the gun had fallen, and slowly stretched my hand towards it. In an explosion of snow, the owolf leapt into the air and streaked towards me. (Picture 1) I grabbed the gun, rolled, and fired.
I staggered to my feet and spun around wildly waving the gun.
“Where is it? Did I get?” I shouted.
“I think so. Maybe. Or maybe the noise scared it off. It’s gone now,” Gretchen replied.
I shoved the gun in a pocket and walked to the pair. They clung to each other like survivors in a lifeboat. I remembered one night when I’d come home, beaten to a pulp, from an undercover job that had turned sour. Gretch had hugged me like that then.
“We’ve got to keep moving. They put monitoring chips in the owolfs. If anyone is watching, they’ll see that is vital signs spiked and send someone out to investigate.”
I turned away, and Gretchen gasped.
“Your back!”
“It’ll be ok. The cold keeps it numb. One of you will have to stitch me up when we get to the cabin.”
*
Another hour passed. The exertion kept the talon wounds in my back from closing, and I could feel the blood running down my back, hot at the top and cooling as it traveled south. I was near the end of my endurance.
I dropped to the ground behind a slight rise in the terrain, motioning for Gretchen and Sam to do likewise. I pulled the night vision goggles from my pack and peered over the hill.
A mile away, across open terrain, lay the safehouse. A light burned in the window.
“What are we waiting for? Charlie, we have to get you inside,” Gretchen pleaded. I let the name thing slide.
“Someone’s home. Probably nothing – I’m not the only one that uses this place – but no one else was supposed to be here tonight.”
“Do we have a choice?”
Reluctantly, I agreed. There was no way we’d make it back to the main road, and I didn’t know of any other shelter near here. We’d have to take our chances.
The Department of Homeland Security had run a sensor line across the three thousand plus miles of the US-Canada border. It worked about as well as one would expect. Basically, not at all. There were so many false alarms and system failures that it was virtually useless, hence the owolfs.
But if they’d already tweaked to our activity, they’d believe the sensors. Fortunately, the snow worked in our favor, screwing with the thermals and rendering the pressure and motion sensors moot. I used the night vision goggles to spot the nearest thermal, then crawled up to it. I slowly pushed the snow into two small hills, with enough room between for a person to worm their way through.
Twenty minutes later, we staggered up to the cabin. The cut-out car I’d arranged for, a LandRover, was parked nearby. Behind it was a 6000-series Mercedes. We tumbled through the door of the cabin. A lone figure sat in an overstuffed chair, a nasty looking pistol in his hand.
“Father!” Gretchen spat.
*
We gathered around a large wooden table. Paul sat on one side, I on the other. Gretchen was attempting to bandage the furrows in my back, and the pain when she pulled the ripped coat free of the clotted blood nearly made me pass out. Gretchen and her father argued. It was like a tennis match between two old foes – lobs and forehands that each anticipated and returned by rote.
“I suspected you might run to Charlie. I didn’t really think he’d help you, though, after what you did to him. Still, a man in my position is used to covering all the bases.”
“You can’t stop us forever. Sooner or later, we’ll find a way across.”
“I don’t have to stop you forever. I just have to stop you long enough for you to come to your senses. I don’t know why…”
“Why do you need to understand?” Sam interjected. The others stopped in surprise. I got the impression that this was a new twist.
“Why do you need to understand?” Sam repeated. “Who can really understand what someone else feels. Why can’t you just be happy for your daughter, be happy she found someone that loves her, that she loves in return.”
Sam’s voice got louder, rougher.
“Would you rather see her spend her life in a miserable marriage to one of your flunkies?”
Flunky? That hurt.
“Or stay at home and be ‘Daddy’s little princess’ so you could show her off to all your important friends? You’re supposed to want the best for your children, to watch them grow and live and be happy. Why don’t you understand that?”
Paul stared at his daughter. She glared back.
Click.
We turned towards the sound, saw Sam standing there with my pistol in her hand. She looked like she wanted to use it.
“Come on, Gretchen. Let’s get out of here.”
Gretchen scrambled to her feet. I started to rise, but the gun tracked me.
“Sorry, Charlie. I’d like to trust you, but this whole thing stinks of a setup.”
The door slammed behind them. Paul looked at me, then rose to his feet. He hadn’t made it to the door when a scream shattered the night. A gunshot followed.
We rushed outside. Halfway between the cabin and the LandRover, Gretchen lay facedown in the snow. Sam’s stood with her back was pressed against the car. The owolf crouched in between them, coiled like a spring. The gun wavered in her hands. I couldn’t tell if she was scared, or just scared of hitting Gretchen.
The owolf pounced. Paul fired, a disciplined, precise double-tap. The impact threw the creature off balance, and it slammed into the car, missing Sam by inches. It growled, and threw itself skyward.
Sam dropped the gun and ran to Gretchen. I limped towards the weapon. More shots echoed, and I glanced over my shoulder. Paul was firing into the sky. The damned owolf hadn’t given up yet, and like bolt of lightning, it struck.
Paul and the animal collapsed in a tangle. I rushed forward, grabbed the beast around the neck, and pressed the muzzle of the gun to its head.
The shot tore most of its head off, spattering me with gore. Paul was already covered. I hesitated, torn between helping Gretchen or her father.
Sam made the decision for me, helping her fiancé to her feet and shuffling towards the car. I heard a rhythmic thumping noise, and realized the Mounties were on there way. Canada and the US might have there differences, but law enforcement tended to stick together.
I ruffled through Paul’s.
“Sam!” I called. When she turned towards me, I tossed her Paul’s keys.
“Take the other car. Plug ‘Bob and Doug’s’ into the GPS; when you get there, use my name and ask for Bob. He’ll see you get the rest of the way.”
I went inside and fetched the first-aid kit from my back. When I got back to Paul, the Mercedes was gone. I broke out the spray bandages and set to work.
*
It could have turned into an major incident. A big businessmen with political aspirations and the connections to realize them getting mauled by one of DHS’s monsters was serious. If they’d discovered why Paul had been at the cabin, it would have been tabloid fodder for months.
Paul told the Mounties he’d been at the cabin to get away from the public and deal in private with his daughter’s suicide. They never had a chance to question him further. Me, I just acted like the flunky they thought I was.
Paul’s funeral was nice. He’d left prior instructions, of course. He never left anything to chance. He’d even requested me as a pallbearer. As I helped carry his coffien down the steps of the church, I realized that maybe Gretchen leaving me had hurt him, too, for other reasons. He’d never had a son, and to a man like Paul, a son was a big deal. (Picture 2)
I guess you really couldn’t understand what someone else feels.
*
Three months later, I was in Greater Sudbury. My contacts told me where they’d gone, and a quick hack revealed a marriage license under the new identities I’d arranged. I hadn’t gotten an invitation, but I figured I’d earned it.
I’m not much for weddings. Too many people, too much stress. This one was different. Smaller, for one thing, and no family. Sam and Gretchen hadn’t been here long, but they’d made some friends, and those friends brought friends. The bride wore white, a sleeveless number that was probably cold despite the blooming spring. The other bride wore something a little more outré, a kind of retro-Rocky Horror getup. (Picture 4)
At a certain angle, you could see a wispy mustache on Sam’s face. I didn’t know which direction Sam was heading. It didn’t matter. Gretchen looked as happy as only a woman in love on her wedding day can, and that was enough.
She spotted me out of the corner of her eye, and there was a quick smile just for me.
“Thank you,” she mouthed silently.
“Be happy,” I replied, and turned to leave.
“The stuff I told you to bring – you got it?” I barked, as I blinded them with my flashlight.
Two women came to an abrupt halt. The blonde was curvy in all the right places, shoulder-length hair included. I knew those curves all too well, and for a moment I considered dumping this job and heading for the hills. Dammit, Gretchen, why’d you have to call me?
The blonde’s companion was skinny, with short dark hair. Her, I knew only by reputation.
Puppet-like, two arms stretched towards me, clear plastic bags in white-knuckled grips. I switched off the light and grabbed the offerings. One bag held a large quantity of cash. I hefted it, judged it sufficient for the job at hand, and tucked the rubber band wrapped bundle into my coat pocket.
“This way. Quickly,” I growled, “and quietly.”
Footsteps crunched desiccated leaves as we worked our way into the park. During the summer months, this was a popular hangout with the lovey-dovey set. Walks in the park turned into impromptu games of hopscotch as strollers dodged empty beer cans and discarded prophylactics. In the dark of winter, though, it was deserted.
Still, despite the weather, its sordid reputation would help sell the story. Experience had taught me, too, that the local constabulary would rush through processing the crime scene and hasten indoors to warm themselves with liquid heat.
“Here,” I said, gesturing to a park bench. One of my new companions squeaked, a high-pitched yip that sounded like someone had stepped on a mouse. Two bodies sat, propped upright on the battered stone.
“Right- or left-handed,” I called out to the dark-haired one. There was no answer. I looked back at the pair. They stood immobile, staring at the macabre tableau. It seemed the reality of the situation had caught them off-guard.
I repeated my question, and got an answer. I pulled two cheap rings from the bags and slid them on frigid fingers. A favorite scarf went around one neck, a gold strand around the other. I dropped a DVD into an empty planter that rested between the stiffs. A few minutes work and the bags were empty.
I retreated into the underbrush and fetched a metal gas can. I showered my unfortunate ‘victims’ and stepped back. I stretched an arm towards the blonde, empty hand cupping an ear and pulling back with a flickering match.
Maybe I’m a bit of a show-off, I thought, but the bonus points for style were good for business.
I tossed the match at the stiffs and watched impassively as they burst into flame. In minutes, the charred remains were recognizable as ‘once human’ and little more. (Picture 3) It wouldn’t fool a dedicated forensic analysis, I knew, but it would take weeks for DNA or dental comparisons. I was confident that the half-burned physical evidence from the baggies would give the cops an excuse to take the easy way out. The video suicide ‘note’ on the DVD would play right into their expectations.
“Let’s get going. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
“Sam and I, we’re so grateful, you don’t know…” Gretchen stammered.
I cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“No names, no talking. Move.”
*
Hours later, I pulled off to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. Winter had blessed the countryside with a snowy benediction, and while the main roads were clear, the backwoods trail I’d been planning on taking was still covered. I wasn’t worried about the car –I’d rented a real SUV, not one of those yuppified pretend ones – but one the off-chance that someone tracked us this far, our trail would be obvious.
I toyed briefly with taking my backup route, but that would entail an extra couple of hours of driving, and my ass was sore. I figured the odds of anyone tracking us were small, despite the ubiquitous GPS transponder embedded in the engine block. Disabling it would have been safer, but it was also a ‘D’ felony now, and it wasn’t worth the risk.
I glanced over my shoulder at pair in the back seat. Sound asleep, mercifully. Sam had tried unsuccessfully to engage me in conversation for the first hundred miles. Finally, her Gretchen had whispered something in her ear and the constant stream of words trickled to a halt.
I reached into a backpack lying on the passenger seat and retrieved a pair of goggles. Early-century military surplus, the night vision goggles weren’t nearly as effective as the newer models, but they were cheap and they were mostly legit, on loan from a licensed PI friend. I slipped them over my head and turned them on. The white landscape turned a harsh green.
I pulled the SUV off the asphalt and headed into the countryside. A mile or two later, a gentle but unexpected caress nearly sent the car careening into a tree.
“Kinda busy here, Gretch.”
“I thought you said ‘no names’,” she teased.
I remained silent and concentrated on the road. Or, more precisely, the lack of a road.
“You can’t know how much I appreciate this, Charlie,” she continued after a long pause. “When father found out we were planning to get married, he pulled strings. Our passports were revoked, and now we’re on the ‘watch list’ at the border.”
I gave a non-committal grunt.
I’d thought Gretch and I would be together forever, with that kind of innocent conviction only the young and stupid can muster. Her leaving had broken my heart; her leaving me for another woman had turned me mean and bitter. The subsequent three years had done little to dull the edge.
I still wasn’t sure why I’d agreed to do this. Gretchen’s father, Paul Dempsey, was connected in a lot of different and dangerous ways. I’d worked for him, for a while, and learned a lot. Eventually, I learned too much, and struck out on my own after Gretchen left.
I’d always gotten the impression that he liked me, but that wouldn’t mean jack if I got between him and his daughter.
I’d buried myself in my work, crossing the line between legal and illegal until eventually I’d forgotten when I’d been an honest guy. The human trafficking was just the tip of the iceberg. The pretty, clean, shiny white tip that drew the attention away from the mass below the waterline.
“You’re still a good man, Charlie.”
I started to utter some insincere objection when the tires blew out.
The SUV fishtailed badly. I wrenched the wheel into the skid, praying the metal rims beneath the shredded rubber didn’t grab the road too hard and send us tumbling. With a crunch, the metal behemoth came to rest against a pine tree. All three of us started to exhale in relief when something thudded heavily onto the roof. Panic nearly set in until I realized it was just snow shaken loose from the boughs by the impact.
“Everyone all right?” I asked. Shaky voices answered in the affirmative. “Good. Stay here till I tell you otherwise.”
I crawled out the passenger side and tumbled into the snow. There was no wind, and the winter air felt surprisingly mild. For now, anyway. I reached back and grabbed my pack,. I shuffled through the calf-deep snow to the back of the vehicle and opened the hatch.
“Grab your coats and stuff and get ready to move. We’re going to have to hoof it the rest of the way,” I called to the passengers.
I rummaged through the back of the car and grabbed enough supplies to fill the backpack. We were about 10 miles inside the border, but the remote cabin I used as a way-station on the other side wasn’t much further than that. Three, four hours, and we’d be home free.
I walked back to the road and looked around. Something metallic glinted in the road a hundred feet back, so while Gretchen and Sam got their
together I went to investigate. Twisted across the road like a cybernetic snake lay a long strand of tire spikes.
I charged back towards the car as fast as I could.
“Come on, let’s get going. Leave the rest of the crap, it’s not important.”
Sam seemed a little pissed, but Gretchen knew me well enough to sense when I was worried. She didn’t say anything, just dropped the small duffel she’d been lugging and pulled Sam along.
The tire spikes meant the Border Patrol was suspicious about this trail. I didn’t hear a helicopter, so they probably didn’t have the area under active surveillance. Probably just threw the wire out there as a precaution. Still, they had other resources at their disposal.
An hour later, one of those resources found us.
*
We’d made surprisingly good time. I decided that speed was more important than stealth. The BP had the best technology government could buy, but more to the point, if we took too long or got lost, we’d likely die of exposure before they found us.
A plaintive howl made the prospect of freezing to death seem not so bad. Gretchen and Sam looked at me, panic plain on their faces.
“Wolf?” Gretchen asked. “They’re afraid of people, aren’t they?”
“No, it’s not a wolf. And no, it’s not afraid of us.”
I stuck the tip of one gloved finger in my mouth and tugged my hand free. I reached inside my coat and pulled the pistol from its holster. The .9mm Glock was an oldie but a goodie, easy to find parts and ammo for, and essentially untraceable.
I stood in the middle of the road and turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky. Sam looked at me, puzzled. Gretchen let out a shout and tackled her, covering her with her body. Something slammed into me from behind, knocking me to the ground. The gun tumbled from my grasp and disappeared into the snow.
A low growl brought me back to my senses. The creature crouched a thirty feet away, a genetic abomination whipped up with DNA from an owl and a wolf and god knows what else. I took a slow breath and looked for my pistol, staying as motionless as possible.
Gretchen started to rise, and the beast howled and fluttered its wings. She froze.
“What the hell is that?” she hissed.
“It’s called an owolf. They made them to patrol the remote sections of the border. It’s got the eyesight of an owl, the sense of smell of a wolf, and can subsist off the land indefinitely.”
“Oh, god,” she whimpered. “It’s going to eat us, isn’t it?”
“Probably not. They’re trained like guard dogs, to intimidate and corral people until the BPs arrive.”
I didn’t tell her that the training wasn’t always successful. The owolf may have gotten senses from two different animals, but it got ‘mean’ from both.
“Could be worse,” I laughed. “If we were in Arizona, it’d be a conyote.”
“Why would that be worse?” Sam asked.
“They’re three times the size.”
I spotted the break in the snow crust where the gun had fallen, and slowly stretched my hand towards it. In an explosion of snow, the owolf leapt into the air and streaked towards me. (Picture 1) I grabbed the gun, rolled, and fired.
I staggered to my feet and spun around wildly waving the gun.
“Where is it? Did I get?” I shouted.
“I think so. Maybe. Or maybe the noise scared it off. It’s gone now,” Gretchen replied.
I shoved the gun in a pocket and walked to the pair. They clung to each other like survivors in a lifeboat. I remembered one night when I’d come home, beaten to a pulp, from an undercover job that had turned sour. Gretch had hugged me like that then.
“We’ve got to keep moving. They put monitoring chips in the owolfs. If anyone is watching, they’ll see that is vital signs spiked and send someone out to investigate.”
I turned away, and Gretchen gasped.
“Your back!”
“It’ll be ok. The cold keeps it numb. One of you will have to stitch me up when we get to the cabin.”
*
Another hour passed. The exertion kept the talon wounds in my back from closing, and I could feel the blood running down my back, hot at the top and cooling as it traveled south. I was near the end of my endurance.
I dropped to the ground behind a slight rise in the terrain, motioning for Gretchen and Sam to do likewise. I pulled the night vision goggles from my pack and peered over the hill.
A mile away, across open terrain, lay the safehouse. A light burned in the window.
“What are we waiting for? Charlie, we have to get you inside,” Gretchen pleaded. I let the name thing slide.
“Someone’s home. Probably nothing – I’m not the only one that uses this place – but no one else was supposed to be here tonight.”
“Do we have a choice?”
Reluctantly, I agreed. There was no way we’d make it back to the main road, and I didn’t know of any other shelter near here. We’d have to take our chances.
The Department of Homeland Security had run a sensor line across the three thousand plus miles of the US-Canada border. It worked about as well as one would expect. Basically, not at all. There were so many false alarms and system failures that it was virtually useless, hence the owolfs.
But if they’d already tweaked to our activity, they’d believe the sensors. Fortunately, the snow worked in our favor, screwing with the thermals and rendering the pressure and motion sensors moot. I used the night vision goggles to spot the nearest thermal, then crawled up to it. I slowly pushed the snow into two small hills, with enough room between for a person to worm their way through.
Twenty minutes later, we staggered up to the cabin. The cut-out car I’d arranged for, a LandRover, was parked nearby. Behind it was a 6000-series Mercedes. We tumbled through the door of the cabin. A lone figure sat in an overstuffed chair, a nasty looking pistol in his hand.
“Father!” Gretchen spat.
*
We gathered around a large wooden table. Paul sat on one side, I on the other. Gretchen was attempting to bandage the furrows in my back, and the pain when she pulled the ripped coat free of the clotted blood nearly made me pass out. Gretchen and her father argued. It was like a tennis match between two old foes – lobs and forehands that each anticipated and returned by rote.
“I suspected you might run to Charlie. I didn’t really think he’d help you, though, after what you did to him. Still, a man in my position is used to covering all the bases.”
“You can’t stop us forever. Sooner or later, we’ll find a way across.”
“I don’t have to stop you forever. I just have to stop you long enough for you to come to your senses. I don’t know why…”
“Why do you need to understand?” Sam interjected. The others stopped in surprise. I got the impression that this was a new twist.
“Why do you need to understand?” Sam repeated. “Who can really understand what someone else feels. Why can’t you just be happy for your daughter, be happy she found someone that loves her, that she loves in return.”
Sam’s voice got louder, rougher.
“Would you rather see her spend her life in a miserable marriage to one of your flunkies?”
Flunky? That hurt.
“Or stay at home and be ‘Daddy’s little princess’ so you could show her off to all your important friends? You’re supposed to want the best for your children, to watch them grow and live and be happy. Why don’t you understand that?”
Paul stared at his daughter. She glared back.
Click.
We turned towards the sound, saw Sam standing there with my pistol in her hand. She looked like she wanted to use it.
“Come on, Gretchen. Let’s get out of here.”
Gretchen scrambled to her feet. I started to rise, but the gun tracked me.
“Sorry, Charlie. I’d like to trust you, but this whole thing stinks of a setup.”
The door slammed behind them. Paul looked at me, then rose to his feet. He hadn’t made it to the door when a scream shattered the night. A gunshot followed.
We rushed outside. Halfway between the cabin and the LandRover, Gretchen lay facedown in the snow. Sam’s stood with her back was pressed against the car. The owolf crouched in between them, coiled like a spring. The gun wavered in her hands. I couldn’t tell if she was scared, or just scared of hitting Gretchen.
The owolf pounced. Paul fired, a disciplined, precise double-tap. The impact threw the creature off balance, and it slammed into the car, missing Sam by inches. It growled, and threw itself skyward.
Sam dropped the gun and ran to Gretchen. I limped towards the weapon. More shots echoed, and I glanced over my shoulder. Paul was firing into the sky. The damned owolf hadn’t given up yet, and like bolt of lightning, it struck.
Paul and the animal collapsed in a tangle. I rushed forward, grabbed the beast around the neck, and pressed the muzzle of the gun to its head.
The shot tore most of its head off, spattering me with gore. Paul was already covered. I hesitated, torn between helping Gretchen or her father.
Sam made the decision for me, helping her fiancé to her feet and shuffling towards the car. I heard a rhythmic thumping noise, and realized the Mounties were on there way. Canada and the US might have there differences, but law enforcement tended to stick together.
I ruffled through Paul’s.
“Sam!” I called. When she turned towards me, I tossed her Paul’s keys.
“Take the other car. Plug ‘Bob and Doug’s’ into the GPS; when you get there, use my name and ask for Bob. He’ll see you get the rest of the way.”
I went inside and fetched the first-aid kit from my back. When I got back to Paul, the Mercedes was gone. I broke out the spray bandages and set to work.
*
It could have turned into an major incident. A big businessmen with political aspirations and the connections to realize them getting mauled by one of DHS’s monsters was serious. If they’d discovered why Paul had been at the cabin, it would have been tabloid fodder for months.
Paul told the Mounties he’d been at the cabin to get away from the public and deal in private with his daughter’s suicide. They never had a chance to question him further. Me, I just acted like the flunky they thought I was.
Paul’s funeral was nice. He’d left prior instructions, of course. He never left anything to chance. He’d even requested me as a pallbearer. As I helped carry his coffien down the steps of the church, I realized that maybe Gretchen leaving me had hurt him, too, for other reasons. He’d never had a son, and to a man like Paul, a son was a big deal. (Picture 2)
I guess you really couldn’t understand what someone else feels.
*
Three months later, I was in Greater Sudbury. My contacts told me where they’d gone, and a quick hack revealed a marriage license under the new identities I’d arranged. I hadn’t gotten an invitation, but I figured I’d earned it.
I’m not much for weddings. Too many people, too much stress. This one was different. Smaller, for one thing, and no family. Sam and Gretchen hadn’t been here long, but they’d made some friends, and those friends brought friends. The bride wore white, a sleeveless number that was probably cold despite the blooming spring. The other bride wore something a little more outré, a kind of retro-Rocky Horror getup. (Picture 4)
At a certain angle, you could see a wispy mustache on Sam’s face. I didn’t know which direction Sam was heading. It didn’t matter. Gretchen looked as happy as only a woman in love on her wedding day can, and that was enough.
She spotted me out of the corner of her eye, and there was a quick smile just for me.
“Thank you,” she mouthed silently.
“Be happy,” I replied, and turned to leave.
