“Flood in the drainage settlement. Multiple injured. Contaminated water exposure. Al Simmons critical. Need medical assistance near Kesto’s pawn shop alley access. Now.”
She is fully awake before I finish. “How many?”
“Too many.”
“I’m calling clinic overflow and emergency volunteers. Keep people warm. Anyone unconscious?”
“One barely conscious. Several shock cases.”
“I’m moving.”
The call ends.
I look down at my hands.
They are covered in filth and blood.
Some of the blood is Al’s.
Some belongs to others.
None belongs to the people responsible.
Yet.
A young man staggers toward me from the far alley, one of the tunnel residents I know only as Pike. His face is cut. His eyes are wild.
“I saw them,” he says.
I turn.
“Who?”
“Memories.” He coughs, spitting dirty water onto the pavement. “Before the surge. Three of them near north maintenance. Purple jackets. One had blue hair. They were laughing, man. Said the drain rats should learn who owns Halo.”
The old soldier inside me stops shaking.
Everything becomes clear.
Not calm.
Clear.
Maren looks up from beside Al. “Kauss?”
I walk toward Pike. “Were they alone?”
“I don’t know. There was a guy with them. Not colors. Suit coat. Didn’t look like street.”
Lenrog?
No.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Ron.
