Omen Operation (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Brooklyn thought about slowing down as the noises started to get louder. She expected her legs to falter, and give out before she faced the Surros again. But they didn’t. She lunged past the trees with Julian at her side while the sun peeked through a thick layer of morning mist hovering low in the sky. They made a quick turn around a large oak, and suddenly, the blur of the enemy became clear.

The crash of a squirming body startled her into a skidding stop. Brooklyn caught herself before she could fall backward.

It was a Surro.

Its body writhed in the leaves scattered on the ground. Its back was broken, eyes bloodshot and protruding from their sockets while it wailed and clawed at her feet. Brooklyn gave it a blunt kick in the skull and turned back toward the chaos to find Julian running into the fray.

Ellie was right. There were too many—at least five Surros to every one person in the camp. They were everywhere, screaming and hissing. It was Brooklyn’s nightmare played out in real time, and the only thing that pushed her to move was a gunshot.

Porter struggled to reload as he shoved a larger Surro back with his fist. Black blood was splattered across his face. It speckled his glasses and dripped over the front of his shirt, accompanied by a patch of damp crimson bursting over his shoulder.

Brooklyn ran forward and tried to piece together a plan or an idea, anything that could help them get out of this alive. Maneuvers danced behind her eyes, every strategy Terry had forced on them, every combat simulation, and every fighting style. She kept it all on repeat and strained to keep focused and controlled.

Three closed in on Porter, only a few feet away. The nearest to him was the largest. When it reached out, he raised the gun to fire, shirt lifting to expose a gleam of metal shoved in the back of his jeans.

She saw it happen before she moved. Every particular play. Every intricate detail. It happened exactly how she predicted, exactly how she wanted, and all she had to do was concentrate.

As he pulled the trigger she slid on her knees behind him. Her fingertips latched around the sleek silver gun. She tugged it out of his jeans and slammed it into the jaw of a slender Surro to their left. It crushed the creature’s jaw and left its mouth hanging open. Teeth dropped from its gums, rotted and sallow, while empty eyes stared out at them before it fell to the ground. Brooklyn swooped in front of him and aimed the gun over his shoulder, firing a bullet between the eyes of the third Surro that had been running toward them from behind the dense brush.

Porter’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched on to her waist. “God, you’re fast,” he said, voice grave and low.

“Go back to the camp,” Brooklyn said as she tore his shirt and revealed the wound on his shoulder. A deep gash, caked in drying blood and dirt. His shoulder had been filleted open, and unlike the rest of them, Porter didn’t possess any radical healing powers. How he hadn’t already passed out from blood loss was beyond her.

“I rubbed some dirt on it. I’m fine.” Porter’s voice wobbled.

“What happened to you?”

“A Surro got a hold of one of Amber’s knives.” He winced when she tugged on him. “I said I’m fine. Go help them!”

“I can’t just…leave you, you idiot. You’ll die.” She grabbed his hand and kept it snug on her hip, demanding that he hold on to her.

He leaned against her, and she backed up, forcing him to take heavy steps backward as well.

“Well, I guess letting me die would leave you without the opportunity to kill me yourself,” he said, almost laughing.

“Exactly.”

Brooklyn focused on the orchestra of sounds. On each branch that was broken. Every yelp and shout. The cluster of voices melted together and made it nearly impossible to find her friends.

Her eyes finally came across Rayce with a Surro climbing up over his shoulder. He fisted his fingers in the back of the white cloth shirt it was wearing and smashed it carelessly into a tree.

Julian was with Dawson. They were back to back, shouting at one another about what they were supposed to do while another group of Surros descended from around a wall of pale green bushes.

Dawson’s movements were quick and precise. He knew exactly where to put his hands, how high to kick, when to move just an inch or pivot a certain way to avoid unnecessary contact with the enemy. He was textbook. A prime example of what they’d learned in the camp.

Julian was good at deflection. He could use anyone’s own strength against them and make it look like an art form. His body twirled around, and he ducked down underneath a Surro, snatching its arm and twisting it painfully until it snapped. Brooklyn almost flinched watching.

“Where is she?” Brooklyn whimpered, fingers dancing nervously against her palm.

Porter hissed loudly, “Brooklyn, on your left!” He tried to lift the gun, but the Surro was on top of them before he could even get his arm up.

Porter was knocked to the ground. Brooklyn’s lungs jumped into her throat. Pale fingertips latched around her jaw, and jagged yellow nails stung when they dug into her cheeks. She squirmed and thrashed while its dark eyes stared at her, a face full of black veins and busted capillaries. Its breath was putrid, and she almost gagged when it leaned closer and snapped its teeth at her face. “Got the girl,” it chirped horribly. “Got her, got her, got—”

There was a glint of silver and Brooklyn flinched as the side of her face was sprayed with thick, black liquid. The hilt of a knife jutted from the Surros temple, cutting its proclamations short.

It fell toward Brooklyn, and she jumped away. The body slammed face first into the forest floor.

Amber knelt down and pulled the knife from the Surro’s skull. “More are coming.”

“More?” Brooklyn whimpered, glancing around to the already overwhelming amount of Surrogates and their bodies that littered the ground.

“Yeah, we gotta get,” Amber said and bounced back to her feet.

Porter’s eyes scrunched shut as he tried to lift himself off the ground. He whined under his breath and wasn’t shy about reaching for Brooklyn when she offered to help him up.

“Where’s Gabriel?” Brooklyn asked after she’d slung Porter’s good arm over her shoulder.

Amber twirled two knives in each of her hands and bounced from foot to foot.

“That girl was everywhere,” Amber said. She lifted her hand over her head with one of the small knives tucked between her knuckles and threw it hard at a Surro that was charging toward Rayce. It flew end over end until it met its mark and sank into the thin flesh of the Surros neck.

Amber took off running toward Rayce to retrieve her knife while Brooklyn lifted her head and wrapped an arm around Porter’s waist to steady him.

“You’re okay,” she said and nudged him.

“I need stitches,” he snorted.

The area around them sounded like a storm, but one voice in particular demanded Brooklyn’s attention.

“Get back to the bus!” Gabriel yelled, sprinting across the clearing toward Dawson. Her hair fluttered behind her as she leapt over the body of a dead Surro and spun around when another large creature lunged toward her from behind a tree. She was a machine, spinning, kicking, hitting, and crushing everything in her way. Her willowy hands wrapped around the wrists of the Surro, and she used it as a platform to vault herself over its head. Her feet hit the ground behind it, and she yanked its arms cruelly before slamming the sharp edge of her knee into the center of its back.

Another Surro tried to surprise her. She smashed her elbow into the bridge of its nose, tangled her fingers into its knotted black hair, and slammed its face into the trunk of a tree.

Brooklyn’s eyes widened when she saw the hoard of Surros running toward them in the distance, a mass of bodies that blocked the light between the trees coming to retrieve them. Her heart was pounding, her mind going a million miles an hour, trying to find a solution or a way out. Something. Anything that could give them more time.

But this was the end of the line.

Porter sank heavily against her, and Brooklyn shook him as gently as she could. His eyelashes cracked open, and he swallowed hard. “Get outta here, Brooklyn. You need to get out of here.”

“Gabriel!” Brooklyn shouted, leaning up on the tips of her toes to try and get her friend’s attention. Porter tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip and shook her head. “I’m not leaving you here,” she said, glancing at him.

Three Surros clambered toward Porter and Brooklyn. One of them crawled, dragging itself toward them with a broken leg. The other two stalked toward them like predators closing in on prey. She was strong enough to kill them—she knew that. But Porter wouldn’t be able to stand on his own. If she put him down, they could easily get to him.

Brooklyn growled and backed up, dragging Porter with her. She fumbled for the gun, steadied her breathing, and aimed. But when she pulled the trigger, a tiny click was all that came from the barrel.

“God dammit,” she cursed and shoved the empty pistol into the back of her pants.

Brooklyn lifted her leg and kicked one of the nearing Surros in the chest. The other three snapped their teeth and muttered nonsense as they inched closer.

It seemed like there was no way out.

Porter kept apologizing to the base of her neck, asking her again and again to leave him behind. She kept backing up until they hit the stump of a broken tree, almost toppling over it.

The thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they were taken flashed through her mind. A quiet whispered idea that it would be easier to give up, that fighting or running would only delay the inevitable.

A gunshot proved the thought to be fleeting.

Gabriel jumped in front of them. She grabbed the closest Surro by the throat and squeezed until its eyes rolled back and the veins in its forehead started popping out above its eyebrows.

Julian shot the other three and stumbled over beside Brooklyn.

“Let me help you,” Julian said.

Brooklyn nodded, and they adjusted on each side of Porter so they could give him enough stability to walk along with them.

Gabriel was covered in black Surro slime, and she gagged when she looked down at herself.

A chorus of screams rose up through the trees. Julian gestured to the rest of the uncharted forest with his chin. “Come on, we need to go. They have the cars. They’ll find us.”

“We can’t leave them!” Brooklyn shouted.

Julian’s teeth set hard, lips drawn into a tight line. “He’s dying, Brooklyn. We have to clean this shit out.” He glanced over the parted skin on Porter’s shoulder. The cut was deep enough to expose the pale yellow sponge of muscle tissue and a thin line of fresh blood wouldn’t stop dripping down his chest.

“All the medical supplies are back at camp…”

“There’s a river,” Porter slurred and pointed over Brooklyn’s shoulder. “I heard it last night.”

“I heard it too…but we can’t…” Brooklyn’s voice trailed off when Gabriel started walking in the direction Porter pointed.

“They’re coming!” Gabriel snapped. “Julian’s right. Dawson will find us. We have to get out of here!”

Brooklyn didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to hide. To wait. To surrender. But they were out of options. It felt so cowardly listening to the Surros sprint toward the camp while they snuck off in the opposite direction.

It was a hard pill to swallow, and all that Brooklyn could think of was the look on Dawson’s face when he realized they were missing.

“They have all the guns,” Julian said softly. “They’re gonna be all right.”

Their pace quickened as the hollow screech of the Surros echoed through the mist. Brooklyn’s eyes started to burn. Tears dripped down her cheeks, betraying the strength she’d been trying to hold on to. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to crumble.

The screams, the shouts, and the voices of their friends all faded away with every step they took.

Gabriel’s hands trembled, and Brooklyn watched her clench them over and over again.

“There’s a cabin up here,” Gabriel said. “Looks empty. It’ll be better to be inside. We’ll look for the river once we’ve put him somewhere safe.”

“Best we got,” Julian said.

Chapter Fifteen

The cabin was large, with a dark cherry wood door and light cream-colored shutters on the windows. It stood alone in the woods with no trail leading to or from it. A broom was propped beside the door, and a couple cheap fold-out chairs were discolored and weather-worn on the porch. It didn’t look lived-in. Gabriel cupped her hands around the window to look inside, but she couldn’t see anything past the thick layer of dust.

“It’s probably some old rental property,” Julian said.

Brooklyn didn’t trust it, but she didn’t trust anything anymore. Julian was right; it was the best thing they had.

Gabriel jostled the doorknob. “It’s open.”

Julian handed Gabriel his gun, and she pushed the heavy door until it slid slowly against the floorboards. The hinges, thick with rust, creaked as the door came sliding to a stop. The air was littered with particles of dust that glittered when rays of muted sunlight beamed inside. The small pieces of furniture laid out as a living room looked old and smelt like expired dryer sheets.

Nothing about the place seemed harmful. The décor was eclectic, consisting of floral patterned drapes on either side of the shutters and old copper kitchenware in the open-facing kitchen on the right. There was a blue velvet recliner and a pale yellow couch embroidered with pictures of dandelions toward the center of the room, adjacent to a large stone fireplace. A red rug with frayed edges lay beneath a large wooden trunk that served as a coffee table.

“Get him on the couch. I’ll sweep the second level,” Gabriel said, creeping silently up the carpeted staircase next to the back door.

They tried to be as careful as they could, but Porter still whined when they set him down on the couch. His shoulder had stopped bleeding, but the gash was matted with dried blood and mounds of dirt. Brooklyn could only imagine the infection he would get if they didn’t get him cleaned up.

“Think they’ll really find us out here?” Brooklyn asked.

Julian was using a pocket knife to cut the remainder of Porter’s shirt off so they wouldn’t have it pull it over his arm.

“’Course they will,” Julian said matter-of-factly. “There’s no way Dawson would go anywhere without Gabriel, and I’d like to think we matter a little bit too.”

There was a smile on his face, the kind that told Brooklyn he was trying to keep himself together. She wasn’t going to dim his positive light with the dreariness of her worries. She tried her best to smile and absorb some of his hopefulness.

Porter’s face was pale and ashy. His eyes were faint, like he was chasing after sleep each time he blinked.

Gabriel’s feet made loud sounds against the floor, creaking and cracking as she walked into each room upstairs. She sighed when she jumped down the last two steps on her way back down the stairs.

“No one’s here,” she said.

Brooklyn nodded. She crouched down beside Porter to get a closer look at his shoulder. She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know how to handle this,” she confessed as Porter’s gaze shifted toward her.

It was hard to watch him try and swallow, to listen to the way his throat clenched dryly.

The floorboards were old and wheezed under the weight of their feet. A soft whistle of wind flowed past the window through the screen on the top of the back door. Everything was natural. Appropriate. Nothing seemed out of place. Except for a distant drum that echoed like a dull record in Brooklyn’s ear. It was off-beat, a dual set of repeating notes that continued on and on. Brooklyn closed her eyes, listening to each one. They were soft and warm, muffled by something, either miles or…earth.

Brooklyn’s bright, curious eyes fanned out over the floor. They traced each crack and crevice until she found a notch just shy of the fireplace, peeking out from beneath the red Persian rug.

“What is it?” Gabriel huffed.

Brooklyn held up a hand to silence her before she pointed slowly toward the rug.

They weren’t drums.

“We aren’t alone,” Brooklyn whispered.

They were heartbeats.

Porter tried to get up, but Brooklyn pushed down forcefully on his chest to keep him on the couch. He yelped and cursed, slapped her hands and narrowed his eyes. “Let me up.”

A smothered crash came from under the floor. Brooklyn strained the listen for the heart beats. They continued to drum, escalating rapidly.

“It’s a cellar door,” Julian hardly whispered as he took slow, hesitant steps around the trunk. He lifted the far edge of the rug to reveal an old cracked and rusted latch. It blended almost seamlessly with the rest of the floor.

Gabriel aimed the gun just shy of the latch and glanced between Julian and Brooklyn.

Brooklyn shook her head. “They might have seen the Surros and hid. They’re probably just campers.”

Julian nodded.

They moved slowly. Gabriel curled and uncurled her fingers around the gun. Julian rubbed his palms together. Porter was holding his breath and continued to struggle, but Brooklyn still held him down.

Julian pulled the latch and lifted the door in one swift movement.

Brooklyn froze when she heard a smooth voice wrap like silk around the stillness of the cabin.

“Now, now. It would be in your best interest to put that gun down, sweetheart.”

Gabriel smiled despite the long barrel of a shotgun pointed at her from the top of the stairs that led down into the darkness of the cellar.

Julian was quick to step in front of her, showing the skin of palms. “Forgive us for intruding, but our friend is hurt. He’s lost a lot of blood, and if we don’t do something, he’s not going to stay conscious for very much longer.”

Heavy footsteps shook the floor. Brooklyn stood protectively in front of Porter while the keeper of their safe-haven appeared out of the cellar.

Long platinum dreadlocks sprouted from the top of his head, pushed back by a pair of dark navy goggles wrapped snug behind his ears. A short blonde goatee framed thin lips, and light grey eyes analyzed each of them carefully.

“We heard quite a commotion out in the woods,” the stranger said. He gestured to the three of them with his shotgun. “Were you all a part of that?”

Brooklyn felt Porter tap against her hand and she inhaled a deep breath. “Yes,” she said hurriedly. “We’re on the run from some bad people.”

“A lot of bad people claim to be on the run from bad people, missy.”

Brooklyn’s jaw clenched and her chest ached. “We need your help…We need to clean his shoulder and sew him up. Let us stay here one night, and we’ll be out of your way, I swear. Just, please…”

“Go on and tell your friend to hand over that nice little .22, and we’ll consider talking.” He wasn’t aggressive, but his eyes never left Brooklyn. The way he stared, unblinking and cold, made her re-think her cry for his help.

Porter tensed under her hand which was still resting on top of his chest. She nodded to Gabriel. “Give it to him.”

“Brookie, I’m not going to give this freak our gun.”

“Yes, you are!”

The man clutched his shotgun tighter.

“Gabriel, give him the gun. Now.” Brooklyn’s words tumbled out from between her clenched teeth.

Julian nudged Gabriel with his elbow.

“C’mon, Gabriel is it? Now, you all stumbled in on us unexpected, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be sure of those I offer a hand in helping, you understand? I’ll take that gun of yours and set it on the table. Then we can take a look at your friend.” The stranger was insistent but lacked any real hostility.

The shotgun was raised, propped up toward the ceiling. He reached out and curled his fingers inwards, inviting Gabriel to place the gun in his hand.

“So, Gabriel and…Brooke?” he guessed, eyes flashing toward Brooklyn.

“Brooklyn,” she corrected as politely and evenly as she could. “This is Julian and Porter…” She moved aside only a fraction, so the man could see their friend mangled by the fight.

“I’m Nicoli,” he said.

“There’s another person down there,” Gabriel blurted defensively. “Make them come up here, and then I’ll put the gun down.”

Nicoli’s smile was wolfish and dark, but he shrugged his shoulder anyways. “Fair enough,” he mused.

The tan coat he wore was lined heavily in off-white sheepskin, and when he stepped aside, it tapped against the ripped-up bottoms of his blue jeans.

A heavy-set young woman with high cheek bones and fringe violet bangs emerged from the cellar, holding a dusty white box. Her skin was dark, matching her ruddy eyes, and a small golden hoop hung delicately from her septum.

“I’m Cambria.” Her gaze settled on Gabriel.

Gabriel still held on tightly to her gun. “What’s all that?”

“Medical supplies for your friend,” Cambria answered, dipping the box forward so Gabriel could look inside.

“Gabriel!” Brooklyn seethed.

Gabriel’s eyes rolled. She flipped the gun and handed it over by the handle to Nicoli. “Here. Sorry. I’ve got trust issues.”

“Understood.” Nicoli smiled sweetly. It was a comforting surprise.

It didn’t quite make sense, but something told Brooklyn there was much more to Cambria and Nicoli than they imagined.