Ruiz nodded. “He’s a legend. The Authority has been tracking him for almost twenty years. They’d just as soon have him out of the Portland Labor field and be done with him, but he won’t go—won’t accept amnesty. He’s like a shadow—a subterranean ghost. He
“Our cause?”
Ruiz glanced over his shoulder, surprised. “Yeah, our cause. He believes in fatherhood.”
Time compressed and the light dimmed. A dull excitement kindled in Bryan’s belly. He knew that many had already died—victims of gunfire and, like Derek Gorman, digital obstacles. He estimated they’d covered two or three miles in their methodical fashion. After a time they found themselves on the outskirts of a lush meadow. In the center of the field five bulls, weapons at the ready, surrounded a trio of potential fathers. The prisoners knelt on the ground, hands locked behind their heads.
“Shit,” Fausto whispered. He swiped at his brow. “Ok, this is it, Bryan. This is our line in the sand.”
“What are talking about?”
“It’s just another test,” he replied, his sleepy eyes now wide open. “Do we help these men? With our assistance, the numbers are even—five of them and five of us.”
“Fausto,” Bryan said, incredulous, “those bulls have
“Of course I am,” Ruiz replied. “Put yourself in their shoes.”
Bryan did. He thought of himself in the center of that meadow and then pictured Maggie; he conjured the images of his father and his mother. He sighed. “Ok, Fausto. I trust you.”
While Norton had been lost in thought, Ruiz had scoured their environment. There were things they could use.
Ruiz scampered over to a sizable log. “Here then, Bryan. Lend me your shoulder.”
The men hunched at the base of the log. Grunting, they rolled it across the ground, over to a copse of juvenile pine trees. “Ok, we’ll need to lever it.” He disappeared into the forest, returning a few moments later with a thick bough. “Push. Give it a good shove, now.”
Bryan understood what he meant to do and, with the help of the lever and ten minutes of sweaty finagling, they were able to balance the log across the low branches of the pines, just above their heads. The green branches bent beneath the weight of the log, but they held.
Ruiz disappeared again into the forest, returning with a length of blackberry vine. Carefully, he tied the end to one of the branches, drew the line taut and fastened it to an exposed root beneath the trap. He shrugged out of his windbreaker and delicately draped it over the root.
Norton smiled, shaking his head at the man. “And now?”
“Now we draw their attention.” He stooped and began to gather stones. Bryan followed suit. When they each had an armful, they pushed out into the meadow, creeping behind brush as they advanced on the men.
“Where did you get the knife?” one of the bulls asked. Bryan heard the anger in his voice. “Was it Fornoy?”
One of the detainees sniffled, but none of them answered.
“Ok. Have it your way,” the bull said. He pulled his sidearm, put it to the head of the sniffler and pulled the trigger, the man’s head vanishing in a crimson mist. Bryan saw the men stare at each other in horror. One wet himself.
At that moment, Fausto stood and threw his first stone. It found its mark, cracking a bull on the bridge of his nose with a solid thunk, the soldier’s eye socket instantly welling with blood. The bull hunched, holding his shattered nose, and Fausto hurled stones like a pitching machine, rearing back and peppering the bulls.
The captured men hit the deck as one of the bulls sprayed bullets at Norton and Ruiz, the ammunition springing wildly through the air over their heads.
But Fausto was gone, already on the ground, crawling as fast as he could for the tree line. Bryan fanned out wide; he stood and threw his own stones, managing to just take cover as another blast of gunfire ripped through the air above him.
“This way,” Fausto shouted, and then they were both angling for the trees. A trio of bulls had pealed away, now striding purposefully for the trees while the guard with the ruined face somehow held the muzzle of his weapon on their terrified quarry.
“Here!” Fausto whispered, and Bryan sprinted for a copse of fallen spruce trees. They pressed themselves against the rotting wood as the bulls entered the forest.
“There,” one said, motioning at the windbreaker. “Scan the tag. Let’s see who we’re dealing with.”
Two bulls went to retrieve the jacket. As the shorter of the two picked up the windbreaker, he jostled the vine, tripping the branch and its precarious support of the log. The block of wood lurched and tumbled down onto the men. There was a sound like a cantaloupe falling off a kitchen counter as the shorter guard’s skull shattered. The log rolled onto the taller bull, pinning him to the forest floor as a stub of branch pushed deep into his eye, the viscous fluid spilling out onto his cheekbone with an audible popping sound.
“Aw, Christ!” the bull in charge said at the sudden demise of his men; Bryan could hear the confusion in his tone. The bull ducked behind a tree, weapon secured to his chest like a life preserver on the open ocean. “Who’s there?” he shouted, his voice high and panicked.
The cries of his fallen comrade were the only reply.
“My eye! Oh God, my eye! Cap, it hurts! Ooohhhhhh, Cap it burns!”
“Calm down!” the bull shouted, voice still wavering. Bryan turned to Fausto for direction but the man had vanished. He understood why when there was a grunt and a sound like kindling breaking. Bryan watched as the captain’s body slid out from behind the tree, followed by Fausto Ruiz.
“Come on, Bryan. We’ve got to do this quickly.”
Bryan stepped out. “What do you call that… that trap?”
Fausto picked up the captain’s weapon. “It’s a Malay Man Catcher,” he replied. He handed Bryan the gun and motioned him over to the soldier. “End it.”
Bryan took the weapon. He touched it to the man’s face, the soldier now quiet, regarding them from his remaining good eye. Bryan heard his father’s voice.
He pulled the trigger, the man flinching beneath the muzzle, but nothing happened. “Shit,” Fausto muttered. “I expected that. Trigger locks.”
He took the weapon from the younger man, inverted its stock and rammed the butt of the rifle into the bull’s throat, crumpling his trachea. The man gurgled, a look of pain and confusion on his face that morphed quickly into still reservation.
Bryan turned his head, suddenly violently ill. He evacuated stomach bile and water; he was afraid of his companion.
“We need to rescue them,” Fausto said. “We can have a chat about morality when this is over, kid.”
Bryan wiped away the vomit. He watched Ruiz creep into the meadow, took a deep breath and followed him.
They crept up on the periphery of the bulls. The prisoners whimpered there on the ground—the man who had wet himself had blood seeping from his ear and nose.
Fausto motioned to Bryan, one hand engulfing the other. He held up three fingers. He wasn’t sure how he understood the man’s directions, but Bryan did. He watched Fausto take a deep breath, steeling himself, and then the man with the tired eyes counted to three.
On three they burst from the brush, covering the space in strides before leaping to take down the bulls. Fausto made quick work of the guard with the ruined face, pulling him into a choke hold before cleanly snapping his neck.
Bryan, on the other hand, wasn’t as efficient.
He threw himself into the last bull, hoping to subdue the soldier, but the man had been trained to fight for his life. This man wasn’t some abstract rule—he was a living creature, a person with thoughts and beliefs and emotions. Bryan felt him struggling beneath him, the smell of testosterone and fear like burnt plastic on the air, and then the bull freed a hand and jabbed up with stunning force. Bryan was dazed by the blow; he lost his grip.
The bull sensed the shift in control and brought his elbow up into Bryan’s temple—once, twice, three times. Bryan felt his strength leaking away; the world went white and then black and he hit the ground.
