Primal Gambit

Chapter 50: The Driver and The Refugee

The wall-mounted screen flickered with sliding white headlines across a blue-bordered bottom. All luminescence in the dingy flat was brought about by the television. Darkness lurked in all other directions. A curvy woman on the screen with vivacious brunette hair that struggled to stay in place seemed to look with piercing green eyes through the camera at whoever tuned in that night. In her ear was a black plug attached to a thin wire that crawled down her cheek toward the cusp of her charcoal lipstick. She held the earplug tightly to ensure it remained in place as she moved around the crime scene, weaving in and out orange-yellow tape that had been crookedly arranged by frantic civil protection units. She spoke loudly, nearly drowned out by the thumping rotors of nearby helicopters whose floodlights besieged both the ground and the adjacent apartment complex in search of any signs of suspicious activity. An alien light from the cameras hit her face, reflecting off her spotless gasmask visor.

"This is where we are led to believe the assailants planned their attack – watching the tenants of the complex across the street day in and day out to find the time that would allow the highest number of casualties. If you look here – get it in the frame, Jacks – you can see the makeshift tent where they stayed. There's a fire that's been put out, signs they've stayed overnight – empty food cans, and then up on this platform," she turned and walked up a decrepit set of metal stairs onto a higher level of the roof, "you can see where they performed most of their reconnaissance. The overturned milk crate here, along with more empty cans – and the neon hotel sign, which acts as a perfect cover." She spoke to Renault and Shift, who sat on either side of a couch in the Clearway dwelling.

They both watched with an attentive gaze, the screen taking over their peripherals. Neither of them knew what to say – the moment fleeting, the day set askew by the events that very morning. Before extensive details were released, both Shift and Renault direly hoped that the blast was merely an accident, perhaps something caused by an unnoticed gas leak. Recent evidence that began to unfold revealed the possibility of terrorism, however, which planted a seed in the minds of each citizen of the Inner City, all glued with horror to their televisions that night. The scenario was grim: either it was a mere accident as everyone had hoped, or another country was beginning to target the civilian populace. The two men sat stiller than statues, faces blank as the caster continued:

"Any details linking this attack to terrorist action are unverified at this time – though from various newsfeeds it is clear that some extremists have already turned to the right wing 'True Russian' group out of Russia as the culprit – sending a warning for America to cease all aggressive actions and pull all its troops out of Siberia. Though how they would have bypassed the travel ban remains a mystery." Behind the woman, Renault could make out numerous civil protection officers shuffling about – gathering what data they could from the scene.

"You think it's terrorists, eh?" Shift tongued through his accent over the sounds emitting from the wall-screen. He sipped on a cheap can of beer alongside the Utah refugee. Renault turned:

"I hope not. Last thing we need are innocent people being killed – they were civilians with no ties to the war whatsoever. It's commonplace during times of war to target a countries' civilian population, though, so it wouldn't surprise me if they were behind it. And you? What do you think?" The ex-spotter turned the volume of the television down from the cracked and stained tablet that came with the room.

"Well for starters I think your country is fucked five times to Friday." Shift laughed a bit to hide the fear that simmered just beneath the surface.

"That it is, my friend. Has been for a while now. You don't seem worried." Renault took a sip from the beer, finishing the can before reaching for two more.

"This isn't my homeland, why would I be? I could get past the travel ban and head home any time. Sure, it's a tragedy, but no bombs have fallen on Malta yet, eh? My home is fine," he cracked open the lukewarm can, "yours isn't. What are you afraid of, the end-times?" He chuckled again, pressing a hand against the thigh that had yet to completely heal from the incident in The Yard.