Chapter 22: Diogo

My radio crackles, startling me awake. I reach for it automatically. Late night calls aren't unusual, but I'm glad I chose to rest separately from Taran. She needs to sleep and recover. I sit up, scrubbing a hand over my face and try to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. I glance out across the city from my place on the roof. It's still full dark, curfew is in effect and very few lights glow throughout Sanctuary.
I bring the radio up to my mouth. "Fuentes."
As I wait for the response I push myself up off the old military cot and stand, stretching out stiff muscles. I sleep up here on the roof more often than I sleep in my own bed. I crave the freedom of open air and stars. I also enjoy being able to see the shadows of my city laid at my feet. My kingdom. It's not perfect, but it's mine.
"Cruz here," Jorje identifies himself. "Primitives have been spotted in the desert not far from the Eastern wall. I'm sending a team to check on the report."
My heart picks up, beating hard in anticipation. These are the moments I live for. Taking out the enemy, protecting my city. War. We haven't had a good Primitive attack in over a year and I'm primed to take point.
"Hold for me," I tell him. "I'll be there in ten."
"Copy," he replies and ends the call.
I leave the roof, striding down the stairwell to my apartment. I shove the door open and go immediately to the lockbox holding my equipment. I drag on my coat and gloves and equip my belt with two hunting knives and my radio. I sling a rifle across my back and add more ammunition to the belt.
I'm ready to leave when I hesitate. I glance toward the bedroom. I've never had anything or anyone to answer to before. Not that I do now. Taran won't give a shit. Not yet. Her feelings are all geared toward anger and hatred. Still, I can't bring myself to leave without checking on her. Last time I did that she'd disappeared. Now the urge to make sure she's there and doing okay is too strong to ignore.
I open the door and cross silently to the bed. She's almost impossible to see in the dark of the room. The light from the lantern spilling in from the other room highlights her form, tucked safely in the blankets of the bed. I kneel and bring my face close to hers. Her lips are parted and her breath is coming out in long, even puffs. She's sound asleep, oblivious to the threat of approaching Primitives.
Unable to help myself, I brush the hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind the small shell of her ear. Her skin is smooth and soft like satin. I want to kiss those perfect lips, but resist. She's better off asleep, believing that she's safe in her Sanctuary.
I stand and leave the room, closing the door behind me. In the hall I stop to give instructions to my man, Garrett, stationed as a guard. He nods grimly, without making eye contact. He'll do his job or forfeit his life. I head down the stairs to the ground floor and out into the cool early morning air. The city is silent and unmoving, few sounds disturbing the night. Curfew falls between 11pm and 6am. All citizens must remain indoors during this time. Anyone caught outside is subject to arrest and interrogation.
I drive to headquarters, ignoring the guards that wave me through the checkpoints. They know me and my vehicle. They know better than to detain me.
I enter headquarters, nod toward the soldiers gearing up in the main room and walk directly to the war room. Jorje and the rest of my advisors sit around the table. "Report," I say, dropping into the chair at the head of the table.
Jorje starts speaking. "A couple of Primitives have been spotted by the Eastern guard. He says they're heading toward the wall in an erratic pattern. They aren't moving fast, don't smell fresh blood yet. Probably just stumbled on our Sanctuary and want to see what's inside."
I nod. That's the most likely scenario. Primitives move fast and with purpose when they sense prey nearby. "There'll be more behind these ones," I interject. Primitives don't travel alone or in pairs. They move in groups or hordes, spreading their disease as they go and taking the ‘survivors' with them. The only thing that stops a Primitive is death, and even that's difficult to deal out to a being whose entire biology right down to the cells has been morphed into something already approaching death.
"That seems highly likely, though none have been spotted behind these ones," Jorje agrees. "Stragglers aren't common. If it is just the two then they'll be easier to pick off."
"Nothing easy about killing a Primitive," someone down the table says.
I turn my gaze on him. Stryker. A philosophical man with a good head for battle strategy. He's never enjoyed killing of any kind. He sees the necessity in taking out the diseased half-dead that plague our land, but he believes that we're killing humans. People with family. People that can possibly be brought back if a cure is ever discovered. He's a good man, but he's wrong.
"We'll do our job," I say, acknowledging his words. "Keep the city safe." I turn my gaze to the men around the table. "Shriver and Ellis, take some people out and shore up the Eastern wall in case they make it that far. Stryker and Cruz, you're with me. I want ten of our best. Everyone else, you're on city patrol. Keep the police alert and watch for unusual activity."
We stand and separate. Stryker makes his way to my side while Jorje goes out to organize our men. I nod toward Stryker. "I want you at my side. Need your eyes, tell me if you think there's more out there we're not picking up."
"Yes, boss," he says, falling into step beside me. I shout to Jorje as we're on our way out of the building. "We'll take point. Your men can fall in behind us."
I don't hear if he responds, I'm already swinging into the jeep. Vehicles are limited. Even the military is forced to share the few that we have. There aren't enough mechanics or parts to keep them running. With each passing year, more and more fall apart and become obsolete. We need them for things like this, which means we aren't treating them well. We're either driving hell-bent across the desert chasing threats or making our way through city streets filled with debris. The guts of each vehicle are cobbled together with whatever's available and plunked inside of frames that are rusting from lack of paint.
"Seatbelts," Stryker says, sliding into the passenger seat. I snort as he pulls a seatbelt across his shoulder and buckles it in. He's lucky the damn thing even works anymore. "Seen your driving, man. Don't want to die before we get there."
"You're a princess, Stryker," I say, pulling out of headquarters and racing toward the main gate. There are two other gates, one closer to our goal, but they aren't big enough to take our vehicles through. Walking room only. Makes it harder for them to be rushed and forced open by either Primitives or illegals. Easier to guard.
"Fuck, man." Stryker stretches an arm across the frame where there used to be a window and squints against the air rushing at our faces. "Better a live princess than a dead man because you couldn't find the brake in time. Not sure you even know where to find it."
I grunt my acknowledgment. I don't have many vices but driving fast across the empty desert is one of them. A perk of being Warlord is that I get my choice of vehicles. When I drive one into the ground, it's quickly replaced. I should probably feel guilty about this indulgence, but I do a lot for my city and ask little in return.
We're waved through the front gates. The second we're through I hit the gas and peel out toward the Eastern section, keeping my jeep close to the wall. As the crisp desert air rushes through my hair and cools my exposed skin, I enjoy the brief feeling of freedom. The urge to just drive and never stop, leave the yoke of Sanctuary behind, is strong. Not as strong as usual this time. There's a woman sleeping in my bed, her lure stronger than the freedom of the desert.
As if reading my mind, Stryker shouts over the rush of the wind, "Heard you got married. What the fuck, man? Didn't even know you were dating." He snickers at his own joke. Dating is a dead luxury. People don't date anymore, they fuck for survival.
If Stryker weren't an older man that's seen more war than peace and survived, I wouldn't bother to answer. But I respect the man. His advice is sound and he never steers me wrong. "Did you hear who she is?"
"Some kind of prisoner," he grunts. "According to the gossip flying around HQ like a women's sewing circle, you told the Judge to hand her over to you."
I'm impressed that Jorje didn't speak up, didn't give the men more information about my new wife. He's a good man. Knows when to keep his mouth shut.
"She's the Desert Wren," I tell Stryker.
His reaction is swift and predictable. He whistles long and loud and slaps his thigh. "You finally got your hands on the little bird then. Fuck, she's been a problem for years. Been itching to get hands on her myself. What's she look like?"
I laugh. There aren't many that would get away with that question, but Stryker was in love with his wife. Abrielle died years ago, taken down in the horde attack that took out Sanctuary New San Antonio. He hasn't looked at another woman since. Just moved on to the nearest Sanctuary city and offered his considerable security services. Stryker and his team are in charge of wall surveillance and security, which is why the Wren is on his radar. She's been climbing his wall for years and he's been trying to get his hands on her for years.
"She's small, like the bird. Red hair, light eyes. She's young too, mid-twenties and cleans up good. Intelligent and driven. Everything we thought she'd be."
"Good," Stryker grunts. "You did good, Fuentes."
Stryker is the type of man to prize intelligence and character over looks. He's been chasing after her with an edge of admiration for her uncanny ability to hide from detection. On more than one occasion he's commented that he thought she'd be well suited to strategy if he could finally capture her and turn her to our way of thinking, away from the brainwashing of the rebels.
"I see something," he says, voice serious. He takes out his binoculars and leans forward for a look while I race toward the spot he's pointing at. "Two Primitives. They've spotted your dust trail. They're running toward us at top speed."
Top speed for a Primitive can approach the speed of a large cat. They don't care about their own health, don't care about survival beyond the next meal, next bite, next fuck. They'll run themselves into the ground chasing prey. Run until their legs fall off, then chase their target on the stubs of their legs until they have nothing left to give. Reason is one of the first things to go in the brain of a Primitive."
"Get ready," I shout. "I'm going to turn, you'll get first shot."
I'd rather take the first shot myself, but I have to stop the jeep. We learned early on not to try plowing through them with a car. Not only do they dent and damage our precious vehicles, but they just get back up again and keep coming after us, even broken and bleeding. And the last thing we need is a Primitive launching themselves at us with a geyser of blood coming out of them. Better to take them out in one shot and not get near their fluids. Primitive blood by itself isn't as likely to turn humans as a bite, but it doesn't hurt to be as careful as we can.
I skid through the dirt cranking the wheel, sliding the jeep so Stryker has a clear shot at the Primitive in the lead. He takes the shot but misses, his aim knocked wide by the bumping of the vehicle coming to rest. I grin as I crawl out my window, reaching for my rifle. His loss is my gain.
The Primitive sees me and hurtles straight at me. I cock the rifle and pull the trigger. Its head explodes and it flies into the dirt carried forward by the momentum of its run.
"Down!" Stryker yells.
I hit my knees in the dirt as his bullet goes whizzing right past me. The sound of the bullet impacting something has me looking over my shoulder. About ten feet away another Primitive goes down.
"Thanks, old man." I climb back to my feet, resting my rifle on my shoulder.
"Don't thank me yet, idiot," he growls, holding his binoculars up to his eyes. "As predicted, the rest are on their way and you left our backup in the dust."
"More for me." I bare my teeth, pull out my knife and reload my rifle.