His eyes squinted in the burst of artificial yellow light. He stepped into the living area; clothing, blankets, papers, wrappers from meal bars, and sticky clumps of dropped and forgotten food stuffs littered the room. His dwelling reeked of sweat and the spoiled goat’s milk left in a tumbler on the arm of the single, three-cushioned sofa along the far wall. To his left, a small hall led to two bedrooms and a bathroom; a small, squared room with what equated to a port-a-toilet, sink, and shower stall not much bigger than the toilet. Sawyer sneered at the sights, smells, and significant lack of what he sought. He turned toward the kitchenette to his right, glaring at the man sitting in one of the four chairs surrounding the small table.
“Where is he?” Sawyer’s voice was steady despite an acrid frustration traveling from gut to throat.
“Not here,” the man’s attention remained on his task; cleaning and reassembling parts of the pistol spread across the table. “You’re late. I was waiting up to talk to you about something.”
“I got called to Lieutenant Pierce’s office.”
Wil Dehring’s eyes slowly rose, Sawyer’s response drawing an interested gleam from their deep, blue depths. He placed the remaining parts of his weapon on the table with exaggerated care before sitting back in his chair, propping his feet on the corner of the table precariously and crossing his arms. Wil’s blond hair, sapphire eyes, and smooth jaw made the man look much younger than his and Sawyer’s eighteen years. The spark of humor in his eyes claimed an expectation of entertainment, further evident in the amusement dripping from his drawled-out voice. “Oh? Do tell.”
Sawyer didn’t want to discuss his meeting with their superior officer, where words like “incarcerate” were used in conjunction with his little brother’s name. All he wanted was to find his brother and, while he suspected he knew the answer to his question, Sawyer sought confirmation. “Where did he go?”
Wil snorted and shrugged; “Where does he always go?” Sawyer bit out a soft curse, resulting in a chuckled from Wil. “So, what did the turd do this time?”
The time lit on the plain, black band on Sawyer’s wrist as he drew a finger across its surface. It was later than anyone – let alone a fifteen-year-old boy – should be wandering. He turned to open the door, ignoring Wil’s question and the explicative following.
“Wait up! What did he do?” Wil’s rush putting his pistol together and sliding his chair across the metal floor followed Sawyer out the door.
The night reeked of chilled mildew, rolling his stomach as its bitter stench settled on his tongue. Sawyer hated nights like this; quiet and still, as if waiting for an opportunity to make a scene. Sounds suspended in the fog, finding unbalanced footholds to spread and distort its tone. The unnatural cadence of his own steps resonated uneasily; anxiety rooted in his core, twisting through his abdomen and chest like a climbing vine. The resulting pressure made every breath of pungent air a struggle and slowed his steps, allowing Wil to catch up before Sawyer cleared the dwellings.
They walked silently, the chirps and squeals of nocturnal creatures trailing them until they crossed into the obscurity of muddy flatlands. Sawyer looked over his shoulder as they crossed the threshold of light to dark; where the light towers atop the control center couldn’t breach. There were no signs of life beyond this invisible barrier between civilization and wilderness; all noises distanced in proximity to the settlement. There were many who traveled the flats during daylight – beneath the blistering sun which dehydrated the barren land – but most avoided moving through them after nightfall, when rain liquefied the surface. Less would risk the journey on a humid night such as this, when the air took on the same liquefaction as the soil beneath their feet. Movement became a whisper in the passage between worlds, the sound of Wil’s breath piercing and unnatural beside his.
The mire suckled the souls of their boots, the sounds punctuated with the gurgle of forming puddles. An occasional splatter of spewed muck clung to the twill of Sawyer’s slacks, the weight settling his khakis fuller on his hips. Though Sawyer was experience in traversing the flats – evident by the speed he maintained despite poor visibility and deepening swamp – Wil matched and maintained his gait. Two inches shorter than Sawyer’s six-foot-two height and with a lean frame to Sawyer’s muscular bulk, Wil’s lighter weight allowed him buoyancy over the softening ground.
A tarnished, silver barrier cut through the mist;
