Changer’s Moon

3

Julia ran from the pain, ran into memory, fading from scene to scene, indirectly taking leave of the struggle that had brought her here, preparing herself for the final yielding.

A hand reached out and caught hers, a strong arm hoisted her into the back of the truck. As she stumbled into the darkness, the dim light from the overhead bulb touched momentarily the flat spare planes of a familiar face, Michael, dressed again in the skirt and blouse she’d given him. She settled herself beside him, her back braced against the steel side of the box. “Making this permanent?”

“This side of the line.”

“They still looking?”

“When they feel like it.”

The truck began filling up, people packing in around them, so they stopped talking and sat in growing discomfort until the smuggler had his load and the back doors were slammed shut and latched. Julia heard the rumble of the motor, grimaced as she caught a whiff of exhaust smoke; the truck started forward with a lurch that pushed her into the dim figure on her left.

The truck crept forward, waddled into the street, hesitated, then picked up speed along an empty street.

The hours passed too slowly. There was no talking, a grunt or two now and then, a cough, a sigh, scrapes as one of the fugitives shifted cramped limbs. There was a stink of fear and sweat, of hot metal and exhaust fumes. The uncomfortable jolting as the truck sped through twisting, potholed back roads became a kind of bastinado of the buttocks and heels, but the stale air had its anodyne for that, dulling her mind and senses, dropping her into a heavy doze.

Whoom-crump of a warning rocket. Bee buzzing of rotors, grinding of engines. Man’s voice blatting from a bullhorn. You can’t tell what he is saying, but you don’t need to.

Truck bucking round, racing off the road into the woodlands, roar of motor, chatter of machine guns, bullets pinging off the sides of the truck, punching through, shrieks, groans, a woman keening in the murk, a man cursing. The truck lurching wildly, tossing them all together in a tangle of arms and legs. Screams. Moans. Banging and clawing at the doors, shrieking, howling, confusion, floundering, muddle. They are locked in a bounding, shuddering box with no way out.

Squeal and shriek of metal. The truck is tumbling over and over down a precipitous slope. Over and over…

Bashing into a tree or a boulder and the back doors spring open and the fugitives spill out in a long trail of whimpers moans and silence…

Bee-buzz of rotor blades, beams of blue-white light stabbing at them, pinning one after another, chatter of machine guns, shrieks. Then silence.

Julia crawls frantically into the brush, fiercely intent on getting away from the slaughter. On and on, brush tearing at her, clawing open her skin, shredding her clothes. Fall into a ravine, rolling over and over, out of control, rocks driving into her, bruising her to the bone, ripping open her flesh.

Slam against the bottom of the ravine, scramble some more on hands and knees, follow the ravine until it dribbles out, on and on, away and away, the noise diminishing, the lights and turmoil left behind.

Finally she collapses on her face, gasping and exhausted. And a hand comes down on her shoulder, another catches her arms and holds her still.

She struggles. She is held firmly but gently and she cannot squirm away.

“We’re friends. Quiet. Don’t be afraid.” A woman’s voice murmuring in her ear. “Hush now. Be quiet and we’ll help you up.”

Julia coughs, croaks out, “Who…”

Strong hands help her up, support her.

A man, blond and chunky, pale eyes almost colorless in the moonlight. A woman, tall and thin, dark gleaming skin, a broad glowing smile.

The man says, “You’re the last, we’ve picked up the rest of the survivors, got them safe.”

Julia swallows, tries a smile. “One called Michael dressed like a woman?”

The woman laughs. “Sure, hon. Who’dya think sent us after you?”