The Sanctuary Series

Chapter 3: Taran

I glance down and then squeeze my eyes shut as the ground far below glares up at me, mocking me with its distance. There's a short platform of sorts several feet below me. I climb as best I can using only one hand, and then drop down the last few feet. My legs buckle as I hit the hood of an old Plymouth Chrysler. I'm forced to throw my weight backward, so I don't slide off the slanted hood and hurtle toward the ground below. It's dangerous enough, climbing around up here on old cars that can shift at any moment. I land on my ass against the windshield. Pain shoots through my tailbone and I grit my teeth.

I need a moment to recover, to regain my purpose, but I don't have time. Instead I check my hand quickly, assuring myself the damage doesn't look as bad as it feels. I drag the scarf from my face where it's wound around my head, protecting my lungs from the endless dust kicked up by constant winds sweeping across the desert. Today the wind is calmer, so protecting my face isn't as big a concern as it is on other days when the relentless sand fills mouth and nostrils, burying itself in the skin of anyone foolish enough to wander outside the wall.

I wrap my hand, using my teeth to tighten the makeshift bandage and then curl my fingers and flex them out. Though pain shoots up my wrist and arm I can still move everything that should move. No nerve damage. The cut isn't as deep as it looks then. I stand, sweep my gaze across the distance, squinting toward the meeting area. A rock formation off in the distance, close enough to the tracks that refugees can jump off the train and run to the relative safety of the rocks while waiting for their rebel contact. Me.

The train passed hours ago. They'll be crouched in the shadows of the rocks as the warming sun reaches out to scorch everything in its path. This is part of the reason I need to reach them quickly, get them into the city. The heat becomes rapidly unbearable to anyone outside and exposed. But they won't be able to get into the city without the papers tucked safely into my vest. Papers that will give them the legitimacy they need to enter the city legally. Give them access to housing, food rations, doctors. When the forgeries fail, I take them over the wall as illegals and they're forced to live looking over their shoulders for the rest of their time in Sanctuary.

Today I'll be escorting a family of four, including two children, and a couple. Six people total. I've done it before. A dangerous and illegal task. If I'm caught I will be branded a traitor. The punishment for treason is being stripped of citizenship and turned out into the desert. Sometimes death, depending on the severity of the crime, although, being expelled from Sanctuary is as much a death sentence as outright execution.

Ignoring the pain in my hand I make my way to the bottom of the wall, climbing as fast as I safely can. I groan my relief as my boots hit the dirt sending up a cloud of dust. Stretching my back, I scan the horizon, shading my eyes against the blazing sun peeking over the mountains. It'll be around 6:30 am. Not my best time. I'm going to have to hustle.

I pull the hood of my vest up to protect my head and set off at a light jog, zigzagging across the landscape, heading for the rock formation. The day is completely clear, so anyone scanning the ground from above will likely see me. It's not illegal to leave Sanctuary, though we do need passes to come and go. Fortunately, I know a damn good forger so I have a pass. Still, it's best to avoid the guards and patrols until I'm ready to re-enter the city.

It takes me a further half hour to reach the rocks, my steady run slowing to a lope as I get closer. I squint at the shadows, seeing nothing at first. Then a man steps out, waving me down. I approach cautiously, staring at him. I'm instantly on alert. Though he's giving the impression of easy comradery as he waves, he doesn't look like either of the men's pictures on the papers. In fact, this guy is much bigger, well fed, muscular. He looks nothing like any of the refugees I'd helped over the years.

I have no choice though. Even though I'm suspicious, I can't ignore the plight of these people. They're coming up from Puerto Rico, a place that's now completely uninhabitable due to high sea levels, storms and Primitive infestation.

I slow down to a walk, eyeing the guy as I approach. The closer I get, the bigger, more intimidating he seems. He's much taller than me and he has a commanding presence that screams Authority. Wide shoulders, head up, back straight, legs spread apart. His arms are crossed so he obviously doesn't see me as any kind of a threat. His biceps bulge with muscles and my heart sinks as I realize he must be part of the city military. They're all built like this.

His face is covered by a bandana and he's wearing sunglasses to shade his eyes from the intense glare of the sun. Sunglasses are a rare item, which means he's well compensated too. High up in the Authority.

"Hello," I greet him as I approach, aiming for a disarming, light tone. Hoping my light, friendly attitude will give the lie I'm about to make some added authenticity. "Nice morning for a hunt, eh?"

Hunting fresh meat is one of the most common reasons to leave the city. Hunting is tough though. There isn't much to hunt in the desert unless a person makes their way to the mountains and I'm not equipped for that lie. No bag, no back-up and only one weapon.

He doesn't acknowledge my greeting. Says nothing until I've halted a few feet away from him. I stand with my arms loose at my side, my right hand near the base of my rifle, ready to fight if I have to. I've made it this long without capture, I've no intention of being taken now.

Finally, he speaks. "Give me the documents."

Fuck.

Somehow he knows.

I widen my eyes innocently and reach into my vest, pulling out my city residency and re-entry papers. He takes them from me, glances over them and then drops them in the dirt. My mouth falls open. Those papers are worth more than clean water. They're my passport to safety. Though fake, they're still worth a lot.

I bend to pick up the papers before they can drift away in the hot breeze, but he steps forward and grabs my arm, stopping me. I gasp and become rigid in his hold. No one has taken hold of me without my permission in years. He's close enough that I can feel the heat from his big body, smell the masculine sweat. His grip doesn't hurt, but it's solid. Probably unbreakable.

"The other documents." His voice is menacing and rings with authority.

My mouth goes dry. Out here in the desert, away from the city, though we aren't far, there is no law and order. And while the justice system in Sanctuary is fractured and vastly unfair, it's something. This man could too easily snap my neck and walk away from my dying body. No one would know what happened or where to find me. The only people who would care about my disappearance are rebel friends.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper.

At first I don't think he hears me, my voice carried away in the wind. But then he leans closer, until our faces are only inches apart. He lifts a hand, tugs his scarf down and removes his sunglasses revealing his entire face.

Diogo Fuentes.

I've only ever seen him at a distance, but recognition is as swift as a punch to the stomach. His strong, rugged features with grim lips and flat eyes are recognizable to every person held hostage within his city. This man has stolen the freedom of nearly 200,000 people, dictating their lives. He is the enemy in a world filled with despair and fear. He's everything I despise.

He could be a handsome man if it weren't for the hard lines around his mouth and eyes. The dead look to his eyes. The pure evil he's perpetuated throughout one of the last remaining Sanctuaries in North America. His hair is cut severely short, a scar running from his ear into his hairline.

"Obey me, girl." His deep, cruel voice is laced in ice. "Or I will search you, strip you bare and walk you naked through the gates of the city before handing you over to my men."