Agent (Book 1)

Chapter 12-Nolan

12

Nolan Hood

Agent: 21

Mission: Protect Citizens of Quarter 9

Location: Quarter 9

Date: August 26th, 2089

Time: 1900

Fifty-three takes off for the apartment complex the second I give my okay, while I follow after, hot on her trail. She's far ahead of me by the time I veer off to the other side of the street, to Hunt's Motel's ragged OUT OF BUSINESS sign laying across the sidewalk. It's been closed for years now, but I've been around here enough times to know that there are a couple dozen people taking refuge inside. I'm hoping some of them will recognize me, from years and years of the looks we shared from across the street. If they do know who I am, maybe that'll just speed up this whole process. I don't know. I've been going through this plan over and over all day but I do it again as I'm running, just to be safe.

Separate to each residence, short explanation, hold them in the motel, bring the children down first...

Seems easy enough. But I know all too well, that these people aren't so quick to trust.

I push open the door to the motel without hesitation, but lose all the stealth I might've had going for me when the dust flies into my face. Through my coughing, I manage to make out the size and shape of the lobby. It's standard, but no where near big enough to hold over fifty people. I know they'll be in here at this time of day, sorting through their finds. I remember visiting them, on some afternoons. Desperate to see what they'd rolled up from out on the streets. Not that we ever shared anything beyond a couple of distant glances. But it always fascinated me, these people. How they managed to band together in their poverty.

Which is why I figure that I can't waste time on this first group. They'll be plenty more to come after. "I know you're here," I say first, when no one reveals themselves to me immediately. There is a new stain on the floor beside the sofa, and a half open pretzel bag on the three-legged table. There's no denying, someone had been opening it only a few moments ago. "It's okay," I say in my gentlest voice. "You can trust me."

It takes at least ten minutes to coax everyone out of there hiding places and into the light. I count nineteen in total, ranging from small children (no older than five or six) to the elderly. No matter the age, they all have the same grungy look about them. I can tell that the dust hasn't just settled over their heads and shoulders. Its a part of them now, having rooted itself into their eyes, noses, and skin. At one time or another, the way they are living would've angered me. I can't allow myself to feel sorry for them now. Can't allow myself to think of anything but the job.

"You've got to trust me," I repeat, bending down on one knee so that I can examine the children's faces. One young boy, clinging onto his mother's skirt, gives me a fleeting glance, before burying his face in the woman's clothes. "I'm here to help," I insist. "There's people coming for you. You must come with me."

Every man, woman, and child in that room seems to share a glance at the same moment. They're conflicted, I think. I can't be the one to blame them, because from a lifetime of living this way, I can bet they've learned never to put their faith in anyone. But is there a way I can make them see what I'm trying to do? They have to remember me. They have to.

"Please," I say, refusing to shy away from any one of their gazes. I tighten my hands on the straps of my backpack. I don't have time for this.

Then, finally, one of the older women in the back (Hunched over with a walking stick in one hand. The side of her face is covered in prominent, black scars) straightens up and points her stick at me.