Molly - Part 1

Chapter 25

The dust rose, settled. It was hard to see through the mar.

Quinton wiped the sand from his glasses then re-adjusted them. Sometimes he thought he could see the shadow of a man, fading in and out. He hoped it was just his imagination.

Ned came up and threw some more ammo beside him. "Anything?"

"No."

"No surprise there. Think they'll try and press tonight?"

Quinton shrugged, rubbing some grease onto the stock of his clipper and saying, "So long as they don't get over the line."

"Tom wants us up further."

"Tom can go fuck himself."

Ned laughed, leaning into the dirt and adjusting the scope of his emitter. "He's out to get you, man. You might be mild-mannered, but fuck if you can't rile up the hive."

"That's what mom always said."

"That you were a trouble-maker?"

"That I'm too prone to kicking."

A sharp divide, in the midst of the sandstorm. Quinton shifted where he lay, lowering the scope and eyeing the no-man's land without machine-interference. Ned always said it was best to check for yourself. Couldn't rely on the machines anymore.

"Hey."

Ned pointed. Quinton tracked the spot, finding what Ned had noticed.

It was a slight shadow, borne seemingly from the city itself. There it lay: just a line, beautiful in a way. Mary would have appreciated it.

"Might be a dog," Quinton said, returning to the scope.

"It's moving strangely, yeah?"

Quinton steadied his breathing and flipped the program on. "Yeah."

It was growing larger. Its shadow stretched across the plane. A flat surface, as if God had pressed his hand down to create it. Smothering the earth, creating indents in the sand.

Behind Quinton: fields of gold wheat, a hellfire-surge climbing over Holy Mountain. Red clouds on red clouds.

"I swear to the good fucking lord if those gas-mask fucks try and--"

Quinton raised a hand, and Ned shut up.

"It's only one."

Ned took out a set of binoculars and touched the base, the binoculars lighting up, the iris fluctuating.

"The fuck?"

"A loner, maybe."

"Do we pick it off?"

Ned was fidgeting with his binoculars.

"Maybe he wants help."

"You know we can't give it, Quinton."

"Yeah."

A part of the storm receded, and there stood a woman. She wore what looked like a floral-imprint jacket, and her hair was white as the snow, gone now since the fall.

"Radio Tom," Quinton snapped. "Hurry."

"But--"

"Go Ned."

Ned shot up and began to key in the number for homebase, pressing the receiver to his ear, relaying what they had seen.

Ned cupped the receiver. "Take the shot."

Quinton's fingers fluttered against the stem of his gun. "You sure?"

"That's what Tom said."

No surprise there. If Quinton was known for his mild-manners, Tom was a fire.