Primal Gambit

Chapter 63: The Flight Out

Doerrman's eyes were glazed, staring at the window. The darkness outside allowed for him to stare directly at himself. The hold was silent and he became lost in his own eyes. He did not blink, to do so would rob him of one more moment to see. There was no way of knowing the thoughts going through Renault's mind or those of the mercenaries, all of them reloading their weapons and tending to burn wounds. Flamethrowers left no blood, only cauterized memories scorched into the minds of their victims. Men as resilient as the mercenaries, however, were unwavering in their refusal to allow their psyches to become scathed.

Staring at his reflection in the window for too long was a dangerous act. If Doerrman became rapt in his own mind, he would not be able to get out. The key to surviving any situation was to not consult your conscience but to remain in the moment entirely. Ridley was equally afraid of the things he would have found within. His levels were off, with a deep-seeded disdain for Darwin and an overwhelming sense of failure. There was nothing he could do now, and upon turning around to the eyes that had befallen him the moment they were lead onto the Reaper, he knew their fate lied in his ability to act.

Valerie's eyes told a similar story, one of loss and distress. She had not looked away from Doerrman throughout the entire flight thus far, hoping he had a plan. Scornful of her actions, of her ability to believe in such a drawn and well-proposed lie, Valerie's only respite was in hoping that her trust in Darwin would not lead her or her love to their untimely end. As she finally broke her gaze, looking to the mercenary leader who placed rounds in his pistol clip, her hopes began to sizzle away. She knew what followed, that these may very well be her last hours of life.

She watched anxiously as Scarab pulled a phone from his pouch and drew it to his ear. For a moment she thought he had drawn a knife to slit their throats. Instead he listened, nodding to no one as details spilled from the cellular. Valerie was unsure if he was being given the order to let them live but the thought quickly escaped her, falling beyond the Mud Wasp and drifting into the blistering cold. Her fate had been sealed. When the call ended, Scarab tucked the device back into his vest and grinned:

"Fucking dark zone, can't hear anything the contractors are saying," he furrowed his brow, wondering if there were pockets he had yet to check for spare ammunition, "Although it does seem like we're heading back to Siberia. Pack your bags, boys, we've got big moves ahead of us." With a smile, he put his gloved paw on Valerie's knee:

"Don't be scared, your story will come to an end soon enough." The contract killer smiled, baring sharp teeth in her direction.

Doerrman wanted to lash out, to lunge across the hold and attack the man that had been given the order to execute those who had lost the contest of finding and returning the professor, but he knew that in doing so he would simply shorten the number of hours left in his life – in Valerie's life.

A fixed blade was tucked into the nearest mercenaries' boot and Doerrman had a clear line of sight on the glint of metal shining back at him. If he moved quickly enough, he could have a chance at plunging the combat knife underneath Scarab's collarbone. In his mind, he watched the action play out, the mercenary leader suffocating on his own blood and crumbling to the grated floor before the others could even lift themselves up or draw their weapons. As much as he wanted to commit the heinous act, the same act that wrought his psyche during past tours, he would not commit to any impulses that could possibly lessen the length of Valerie's life.

He had been pressganged by both the serpent and his significant other into a contract he wanted nothing to do with. The withered soldier would have been elated to pack a single bag with his girl and finally break free from the vice-grip The Dark City held them with. Valerie, however, had been consumed by the activist cause. He was not angry at her for devoting herself to the cause – quite the contrary. It was one of the reasons he fell in love with her in the first place so many years ago, for her ability to become so consumed with one idea. As soon as he returned from the war and saw how truly passionate she was in rescuing Arthur Shuke, it filled him with secondhand elation; for at one point she had been completely consumed by the love they shared for each other.

The only regret that embedded itself deep within was that of not trying hard enough – not fighting for her cause with the same amount of love and compassion that she fought for his. If they were going to be killed out there in the fields, between tepid pools of toxic discharge and corpses of old, only the deaths of her and his ex-spotter would weigh on his conscience for the final moments of his life, not his own.

Massive propellers on either side of the fuselage sucked wind into their sharp ridges and spat out dead lift. The thumping blades that swung around violently reverberated in the cabin where the disparate three sat, awaiting their predetermined fate with beating hearts rising into their throats. Biting winds howled beyond the hold, drowned out when one of the pilots rang out over the intercom:

"Leaving city limits now, approaching the final outpost before The Yard. We're fifteen minutes out – turning communication relay off – no one should know what we're doing." The static fell into the void along with the voice and left naught but the wind again.

Renault swallowed but the lump in his throat remained. He never thought his story would end out there in The Yard – that he would never get to see his family again. Images of them infiltrated his mind, unfaltering in their ghastly presence. They no longer carried with them a comforting aura of peace and compassion, instead lingering with burning corners, presenting themselves to him so he would know just how poorly he had failed them. She would call his phone over and over once he was unable to check in, ringing in the solitude of the killing fields, drowned in sludge or worse: answered by evil men who had looted his corpse. He saw Grace crying, held by Ellie who shared in her tears. And there was nothing he could do but watch their lives cascade down into the deep darkened depths.

As the spotter gazed beyond the barred window into the night, an orange light suddenly blared up – blooming like a marigold on a dead patch of black soil. Scarab motioned for one of his men to slide the metal door open. Upon doing so, the leader hung halfway out of the cabin and looked down, returning his goggles over his scarred eyes:

"I'll be damned. Sons of bitches were tougher than I gave them credit for. Sure." The last words resonated from his mouth as the remaining souls in the cabin looked beyond the door. Fog laid heavily, carpeting the land, but the stench of burnt hair and flesh reached even the highest altitudes. Valerie cringed, nestling her head into the crevice between Doerrman's chin and his shoulder.

"Scarab, you see that? Outpost's torched. We'll call it in up here, get a cleanup crew and fresh grunts out there. Jesus." The intercom fell silent as the aura within the cabin changed.

Bodies were beaten and burned below, vehicles and buildings still ablaze as the chopper flew stealthily overhead. There was no telling how many people had died down there at the border patrol that kept The Yard from encroaching any further on The Dark City. All Valerie could do was hope that more soldiers were positioned at the outpost before the evils within the great expanse realized there was a way into the elusive city.

Part of her did not care anymore. Valerie knew that if they lived then they would escape the city and go somewhere – anywhere else. She owed him that, even though she owed him so much more.

Their end drew ever nearer.