?? The Witnesses in the Wilderness

  Meanwhile, in a rural area far removed from civilization, were the Witnesses. Since Desza had fallen into a coma, all their plans had been halted; no one had made a move.

  They were hidden away on a property belonging to the Docklys, or rather, Dockly's parents. They claimed no one had been to the house since 2007, so it seemed safe.

  For most, it was a moment of calm. For one, it was not: J?rgen Czacki spent ninety percent of the day beside the unconscious Desza, tending to his every need. He bathed him, fed him, and lent him some of his own power to keep him alive. Several months had passed since Desza's neck had been broken; thanks to the help of his benefactor, Pullbarey, he had not died—a genuine miracle.

  Isabel was the most concerned about J?rgen's health. She kept trying, without success, to get him to sleep. Azricam and Chesulloth patrolled the area: they were tasked with warning the others if anyone approached or eliminating the threat if necessary. R?sse?s spent his time with Jane and Rose—they had grown quite close on recent trips, especially after Gus and Joel had left for Tanacia on a mission. Dockly, ever the refined type, passed the afternoons in his room, devoted to maintaining his weapon; he was the calmest and most elegant of the group. Ocho did as he pleased: he would disappear for days and then return, remaining silent with almost everyone; he only spoke with J?rgen, because J?rgen was in charge while Desza lay unconscious.

  "You know," Ocho said from a corner. "Last night I saw some birds on my chair. I took it as a sign of good faith."

  J?rgen leaned over Desza and began to clean him.

  "I know you'd say that's all nonsense," he retorted, "but there are many strange things: from children spitting fire to people conversing with the dead. Though I've never met one, ha ha."

  At that moment, Isabel burst in.

  "Ci?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly. "Am I interrupting?"

  "No," he replied. "I've finished."

  "Let me take over, let someone else tend to him."

  "No," J?rgen said as he finished dressing him. "I chose to do this. Do you need me?"

  "Not really. I asked where you were and they told me you were here."

  "Well... here I am. Something up?"

  "No, well... no."

  "Is it about Joel or Gus?"

  "Hmm, I don't think so."

  "Aha. Well, it's fine; if it were serious, you'd tell me."

  J?rgen was about to leave.

  "If you don't mind..."

  He stopped and looked at her. Isabel was looking at the floor.

  "If I don't mind what?" she insisted.

  "If you don't mind... do you mind if I help you with that?"

  "No, I can handle it myself," Isabel replied. "Besides, he doesn't want anyone but me to touch him."

  "How can you know that?"

  J?rgen smiled.

  "He told me once."

  "That sounds very specific."

  "Ha, ha, ha. Honestly, this is a bad habit. Once he told me that if he got stranded on the moon, I should slit his throat; or if he turned into a zombie, I should yank out his teeth; or if he fainted in public, I should carry him."

  "I would have called you crazy a year ago," Isabel said, "but from the little I know of Desza, I can see him doing that."

  "Ha, ha, I'm sure he would."

  Isabel began to scratch her left arm.

  "When is your birthday?" she asked suddenly.

  "Now that is strange."

  "Well," she admitted, "I'm bad at this."

  "I see that. Anyway, why?"

  "Just tell me."

  "It's January eighth."

  "Great."

  "Great?"

  "You're so dense, Ci."

  "My lack of sleep is to blame."

  "Sure," Isabel laughed.

  She stood up and left the room.

  "What a strange girl," J?rgen smiled, watching Desza. "I'll be right back, brother."

  He placed his hand on Desza's forehead and left. He went downstairs and found Dockly in an elegant, dark blue robe with a yellow scarf around his neck; in his left hand, he held his Winchester, which looked almost new.

  "..." J?rgen murmured, unsure.

  "Relax," Dockly said. "It won't fire unless I wish it to."

  "...Understood."

  Dockly was about to walk past, but J?rgen called him back:

  "Fernando."

  Dockly stopped.

  "Yes?"

  "I need your help with something."

  "...That's strange for you to ask, knowing we have our differences."

  "I can't ask anyone else, especially not someone who doesn't have good aim like yours."

  "Ooh, I like that," Dockly replied, turning around.

  "I always enjoy testing my skills," he added with a forced smile. "Will you help me?"

  Dockly took the weapon with both hands.

  "What do I have to shoot?"

  J?rgen led Dockly to a rural area, far from the mansion. In a van parked at the edge of the road, four men in suits were passing the time in idle chatter.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Oh," said one, "I see they were following us. Azricam and Chesulloth aren't doing their job well."

  "It's not their fault," another retorted. "I told them to patrol only up to the property limits."

  "And what do you want me to do?" asked the first.

  "They're agents."

  Upon hearing those words, Dockly fixed his gaze on J?rgen. His mocking tone vanished; his face grew serious. He raised his weapon, aimed, and murmured:

  "Got you."

  A shot rang out from his Winchester and pierced the bald head of the man driving. The rest reacted, alarmed.

  "Just one," J?rgen commented.

  "That's fine."

  Dockly reloaded and fired again: three more impacts, two to the head and one to the leg.

  "If there is one thing I hate more in this life," he said with fierce calm as he kept shooting, "first are agents; second, unionists."

  J?rgen advanced toward the van with his hands clasped behind his back. With every step, a contained rage flared in his chest; deep down, he wished to massacre them all, but for the good of his family, he needed information.

  He knelt beside a wounded agent, young, about thirty years old, who was clutching his leg and only letting out a grunt.

  "A tough man, huh?" J?rgen commented, standing in front of him.

  The agent tried to pull out his weapon.

  "Freak, you're dead," he stammered.

  Before he could aim, J?rgen snatched the gun from his hand and shot him in the arm.

  "Argh."

  "I know you've been following us for a long time," J?rgen said, his gaze cold. "I also know what your intentions are. For agents, you're not very good."

  "What do you want?" the injured man mumbled.

  "You're alive because, unlike the other three, you have less experience. I am certain you will tell me what I need."

  "I won't say anything," the man replied.

  J?rgen shot him in the other leg.

  "AARGH!"

  "Now will you?"

  "Okay, okay, I'll talk."

  "Good," J?rgen said. "Let's start with the basics: what are you doing here?"

  "We're looking for a certain Desza Harryngton. He's accused of betraying the agency; the director wants his head."

  "Betrayal? What are you talking about?"

  "I don't know anything else. We were only supposed to watch, and the reinforcements would handle the rest."

  "Reinforcements?"

  "Tonight: two hundred and thirty men are coming to apprehend him."

  A tense silence. The injured man breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps thinking his life was safe.

  A shot rang out then, from behind J?rgen's back. The bullet pierced the agent's brow; he died instantly, a small smile frozen on his face.

  "But my friend seems to disagree," said the one who had fired from a distance.

  J?rgen tossed the weapon to the ground and returned to Dockly.

  "What did he say?" Dockly asked.

  "That we're in trouble."

  "How much trouble?"

  "Two hundred and thirty agents."

  "That seems... too large for ten people."

  "On the contrary, Fernando," J?rgen replied gravely, "we are too few."

  "Are we going to fight?"

  "Of course. Desza is immobile; we can't keep running anymore. It's a shame. But if the agents want to see blood, they'll see their own."

  "...That's crazy," Dockly said, albeit with a spark of enthusiasm. "I love crazy. Let's go home and warn the group."

  They returned to the mansion and gathered the rest. The word "agent" sparked fear in some; in others—not a few—it awoke something more primitive: not worry, but a thirst for revenge.

  "We can count on Ocho, can't we?" Isabel asked.

  "I don't know," J?rgen replied. "She's not obligated to protect us; nor are we to her. But you all have a debt."

  "Why?" Azricam asked, defiant.

  "Because it was Desza who saved you," J?rgen said. "Not just me, but all of you."

  "...Fine."

  Isabel stepped forward and extended her hand.

  "I didn't like him," she confessed, "but if it weren't for him, I'd be dead."

  "Same," said R?sse?s, smiling and joining Isabel.

  "Us too," Jane and Rose added.

  Hands were superimposed, one after another. Even J?rgen placed his thumb on the palms of the others.

  "And you?" someone asked, turning toward Dockly.

  Dockly sighed.

  "How childish," he murmured. "I'm in, but not for Desza. Don't misunderstand: I don't trust any of you. Sooner or later, one of you will betray me, and when that happens, I don't intend to cry when I kill them."

  "...Are you going to help or not?" Jane insisted.

  "Yes, of course."

  J?rgen grabbed Dockly's wrist and united it with the others.

  "Bitter," Azricam scoffed.

  "Perhaps you'll be the first to die," Dockly retorted.

  Everyone laughed.

  The plan was drawn: Jane, Rose, and Dockly would stay with Desza; Chesulloth, Azricam, and J?rgen would watch outside; the rest would stay inside the house. The distribution was based on each person's strength and resilience.

  When night fell, headlights and the low rumble of black vans approaching could be distinguished.

  "There they are," Azricam commented, "the filthiest gentlemen in humanity."

  Chesulloth laughed, but then ordered:

  "Focus."

  Inside the house, Dockly adjusted the scope of his Winchester.

  "Something's wrong," he murmured. "That's six vans; there shouldn't be more than thirty people."

  "Maybe he was mistaken," Jane said.

  "I doubt it," Dockly replied. "He gave an exact figure, not an estimate."

  "Should we warn them?" Rose asked.

  "No need," J?rgen answered. "They'll have noticed already."

  J?rgen narrowed his eyes, searching for another sign.

  "What's wrong, Chesu?" he asked.

  "I don't feel their fear," Chesulloth replied. "I feel nothing."

  "They're agents, Chesu," J?rgen retorted. "They come prepared not to feel fear."

  Dockly realized too late.

  "It's a trap!" he shouted. "J?rgen, destroy the cars!"

  The vehicles accelerated.

  "They're bombs!" J?rgen exclaimed.

  The three lunged toward the cars. The explosion of the first vehicles knocked them out of action; however, four of them were coming straight toward the house. Neither the firing speed nor the precision of Dockly could stop four cars at the same time.

  "Shit," Dockly cursed.

  The first car slammed into the facade and exploded, causing a tremor that shook the upper floor. The house, built almost entirely of wood, threatened to collapse.

  J?rgen managed to get up and gave the order to evacuate.

  Dockly saw that Jane and Rose lay unconscious from the impact. He looked out the window: below was an artificial pond, a possible escape route. Then he turned toward the three "useless" people in the room. He couldn't ask for help; besides, the door was blocked by a beam, the floor was vibrating, and fire was spreading slowly.

  "Whatever," he said, resigned.

  He threw his Winchester out the window and went back for Rose. Due to her slender build, carrying and throwing her was easy. He knew the pond was below; the second fall would be cushioned by the water. Then he returned for Jane. Due to their old quarrels, he didn't bother to treat her gently: he took her roughly, like luggage, and tossed her out the hole. Curiously, Jane woke up mid-fall; she didn't have time to react and splashed into the water.

  "I'm going to kill him," Jane murmured, shivering from the cold.

  She watched her sister slide across the roof toward the pond. Jane reacted just in time, positioned herself where Rose would fall, and luckily caught her in the air; only their feet got wet.

  "Got you," she said, looking up. "Doc, you're alive! Right?"

  "Get out of here, you idiot!" Dockly retorted.

  He approached Desza. Ironically, he was more careful taking him out than he had been with Jane: he took him in his arms and both climbed out the window. The house didn't take long to collapse; fire and flames consumed what was left of the structure.

  "It was the only thing I liked about my family," Dockly said as he watched his home burn.

  J?rgen stood up with effort and carried Desza in his arms.

  "Thank you for saving him," someone said.

  "Don't thank me," J?rgen replied. "He's still useful to me."

  Gathered outside, they scanned the surroundings for enemies. J?rgen frowned.

  "Well," he murmured. "I think I overreacted."

  A man dressed in red emerged from the darkness. Dockly didn't hesitate and shot him in the middle of the forehead; the bullet passed through him as if he were paper. This put everyone on the defensive.

  "Woah, calm down, mate," the man said softly. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't use little bombs."

  Dockly then noticed a flying object stationary above the individual's head: it made no sound.

  "Where are the others?" J?rgen demanded.

  "Quite a few kilometers from here, on my orders," the man answered.

  "Vermin. Why are you following us?" Dockly said, pointing his weapon at him.

  "There was a confusion on the part of my team," he continued. "Although the unconscious one looks like someone I know, he isn't. I came to greet you, virtually... and to apologize."

  Dockly shot at the flying object, but the bullet disintegrated before touching it.

  "Can you stop showing off?" the individual growled.

  J?rgen lowered the barrel of Dockly's weapon and took a step forward.

  "Finally, a civilized one," the man said scornfully.

  "Are you an agent?" J?rgen asked.

  "Do they still call us that?" he replied. "Well, I'm an 'agent'."

  J?rgen did not hide his contempt. The man laughed and continued, more kindly:

  "I understand the look. From your point of view, I might be a monster. But at least we're good for research," he added, with a short chuckle. "Bad joke, sorry."

  "Look, my personnel were looking for a kid identical to that one. He escaped me about a year ago. But, since circumstances make it impossible to do it alone, I asked for a little experienced help in the search," the man in red explained.

  Then he looked at the burned house, and smiled slightly.

  "Explain that," Dockly said, pointing at the burning house.

  "I lost contact with two workers. I suppose you know which ones I mean. I requested localization and got results—two dead."

  "The dying man said 230 agents," J?rgen retorted.

  "Axel," the man continued. "The dying man was named Axel, he was barely twenty-four; it was his first mission."

  "We're supposed to feel pity for the deranged," Dockly replied sarcastically.

  "It appears that was you," the man in red said. "Anyway: I haven't come for you... today. This is a warning: you have your problems, and I have mine. Let's leave it at that."

  J?rgen accepted reluctantly.

  The individual smiled and, without another word, disappeared. They were left in silence, exposed under the night sky.

  "What do we do now?" Dockly asked.

  "Let me think," J?rgen replied, as he looked at the ashes of the house and tried to put his ideas in order in the gloom.