Between

Chapter Seven

Sector 7 Western Housing District, Northeastern Corzibar

Several hours after the tents began coming down, Foster Kreisberg knocked on the door to the Miller household. There were no lights on the porch, a fact which didn't sit well with him, and he'd not seen Wren since the evaluations began. Foster himself had passed his evaluation with flying colors, but he'd grown worried by Wren's apparent absence. Stopping by the house seemed to be the next logical step.

He knocked again, louder this time, adjusting his breathing mask to ensure he could be heard through it.

"Hello? Mister and Missus Miller? Nolan?"

He knocked once more, but when no one answered, he turned the knob and opened the door himself. The inside was dark as well, and it only took him a moment to understand what had happened.

The house was in disarray. Two chairs and the rickety dining room table were overturned, several plates were scattered in pieces across the partially rotten floorboards, and Vincent Miller's prized wooden bookshelf lay cracked and on its side. Stepping over the various objects, Foster moved slowly, his every nerve on edge, every muscle ready to react should a stranger appear. Passing by an antique display case, Foster reached for the small decorative blade situated atop it.

"Missus Miller?" he called again into the darkness, brown eyes alert to even the slightest potential movement. "Kiera? Vincent? Nolan?"

There was no one in the house.

His heart pounding in an odd combination of fear and anger, Foster dropped the blade and made his way back to the front door.

Slamming through it, he walked straight into two masked Directorate soldiers waiting on the other side. Each one grabbed him under the arms.

"What the—what do you think you're doing?"

"We could ask you the same question, young man," replied one of the guards, and Foster strained to wrestle himself free. "This family has been transferred. Why are you here?"

"Transferred?" Foster demanded, giving another useless tug against the men. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you should calm down and go on your way, sir, or you'll be joining them and their impure daughter in the scrubs."

Foster couldn't help himself. He broke one arm free and managed to punch the first guard in the shoulder, sending him staggering backwards down the steps. Before he could escape, the second guard slammed him against the now closed door and withdrew a weapon, shoving it against the young man's jugular. Breathing hard, Foster stopped struggling.

"Do you know what this is, boy?" the guard growled, pressing the point of the gun harder against his neck. The first guard had managed to scrabble back to his feet and was now pointing his own weapon at Foster as well. Clenching his teeth, Foster shook his head. "This is a BAR gun. Do you know what that stands for?"

Again, Foster shook his head.

"It stands for ballistic air rod. Do you know, boy...do ya know what a ballistic air rod does to the person it hits?"

"I have a good idea," Foster bit out in response.

The guard gave a sharp chuckle.

"A person gets hit with one o' these bad boys, they drop like a rock. Dead before you hit the ground, if ye're lucky. See, these darts is designed to seek out the major arteries o' the human body. They hit true, inject air into the circulatory system. Know what happens when there's air in the circulatory system?"

Foster glared into the gloss black coating of the mask.

"I'll tell ya. See, blood moves around when the heart contracts and pushes it around. But..." He pushed the gun still harder against his neck. "When there's an air bubble in there, the heart can't compress no air. In fact, all it can do is pump and pump and pump, but no blood moves around. No blood means no oxygen, no oxygen means...well, ever'body knows what happens when the brain ain't got no O2. Get the picture, boy?"

The guard removed the weapon from Foster's throat, just in time for the first guard to jab him in the side with an electric prod.

Foster dropped to the porch deck and roared in agony as the first guard continued to dig the prod into his skin. He could smell his clothes and flesh beginning to burn.

Somewhere, in the background of his pain, he heard the second soldier's voice.

"Just be thankful ye're gettin' the prod instead of the gun, boy."