Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Fifty-Three

Outside, Sam charted a course into the mountains. It was important to keep the compound between them and the oncoming enemy. The cannons of the fighting vehicles likely had night vision or infrared targeting systems, and the darkness wouldn't be any protection until they'd gotten some great distance between them and their pursuers' powerful weapons.

As if on cue, the concussion and hiss of heavy weapons fire exploded not far off, and the ricochet of tracer rounds shooting skyward a few hundred yards to their left swiftly seized Sam's attention.

It was only then he realized he'd lost track of Lydia. Stopping in his tracks, he caught sight of the girl running toward them from the spot where the heavy and deadly Bradley rounds had just impacted. She ran faster than Sam had ever seen another human being run, and she clutched the assault pack he'd liberated from the mercenaries earlier that day. The girl had recklessly exposed herself to recover the pack, but he didn't take the time to scold her. He merely grabbed both children by the hands and took off as fast as Celia could run.

The three soon hit the tree line near where Sam earlier had taken his fall. Working their way along the ridgeline and through the woods, Sam thought—rather, he hoped—that they were out of range of the Bradley guns, but from time to time he caught the sound of diesel turbines in the distance. The muddy trails that the mercenaries used to stalk their prey extended for miles up into the mountain valley.

The three fugitives kept moving.

Soon, the thump of helicopter rotors echoed in the distance. Later, these were joined by the buzz of the small drones that'd tracked him during the day. He scolded himself for not having destroyed those on the ground at The Range, but dismissed those thoughts.

Focus, he told himself. You have the children. Now you need to keep them alive.

His first thought was to make for Lydia's bunker. It was another notion he quickly dismissed. Their pursuers obviously had much greater resources than he'd earlier imagined. The base to the south of The Range seemed to be churning into high gear, and Sam already could hear what he thought were four helicopters in the air. He and the girls might secret themselves for a few days in the bunker. But they'd soon run out of food and water, and there was no guarantee their pursuers would relent.

No. They had to move and move quickly, because even if the aircraft tracking them were fitted with night-vision equipment, which they likely were, darkness was still their friend.

So, the small group continued to travel and did so at a pace much faster than any with which Sam was comfortable. For the immediate future, they had to assume all their pursuers were behind them. They would be bogged down in that valley forever, otherwise.

But the passage of time and distance slowed them. After about two hours, Celia began to lag. She'd been cooped up in a tiny cage for over a month, let out only twice per day to relieve herself. Her tired and tiny muscles had been generous to carry her as far and as fast as they had. Sam scooped her up, and they continued.

Three hours after that, as the first light of dawn began to reveal itself, Lydia began to slow. Her healthy meal from what was now the day before had strengthened her. But she still was weak and malnourished from her horrible ordeal in the wilderness. Sam scooped up the second child and strode onward.

They'd covered, by his estimation, eight to nine miles in that time. Most of that movement had been uphill, over rough terrain and through dense underbrush. The morning light revealed that they now were surrounded by sharp, jagged peaks on most sides. Many of those peaks still had hints of snow un-melted from the winter before, and the air had begun to grow thin.

It became apparent that there would be no escape from the valley without at least some climbing. The girls weighed not much more than a few raisins, so Sam easily could carry them all day. But he couldn't do so while climbing, so the children would need to climb too. For that they needed rest.

After 45 minutes more hiking, he settled on a wooded area near a small stream. Rolling the now sleeping children in the poncho and liner, he left them amid the trees and tested the water of the stream.

As he hoped, the water was good and also cold. He drank plentifully, reserving the bottled water for his tiny wards. He also went downstream a short way and bathed as best as he was able. His shirt was in tatters, but he rinsed it and the rest of his clothes as clean as possible.

Sam needed little rest and found a perch within easy view of where he'd left the sleeping girls. The morning was cool, but the dampness of the newly cleaned clothes bothered him not at all. Opening his senses to the surrounding area, he began to observe and to think.

Over the next hours, the intermittent sound of helicopters wafted up from the valley. On several occasions, the unwelcome noise came dangerously close. The morning was overcast, and heavy clouds were rolling in from the northwest. The idea of travelling with the girls through any sort of downpour was unappealing, but low clouds and heavy wind would limit the operations of the enemy's helicopters and might ground them all together.

So, Sam prayed for rain.

After he did, he pondered the events of the last 24 hours, the insanity of it all. It was only with time to reflect that the words of Sam's friend Glenn Fallows came back to him. Glenn had worked several years for Hollirich. The man had little to say about that company, per se, but during their Lincoln Park meeting, Glenn had described the various ins and outs of government contracting.

"The goal of companies that seek government contracts is to make money, mostly by providing services to fill gaps in government need," Glenn had told him. "To that end, the contractor will do whatever he can to extend the life of the contract, and to minimize costs and maximize profits while doing so. That part is simple."

"The goal of politicians who approve the contracts and the bureaucrats who administer them is a mixed bag," his friend had continued. "Sometimes they're honest trustees. Sometimes, well—often, politicians award government contracts as some sort of political largess, sometimes to make jobs in the home district."

"The agenda of bureaucrats? Job security. They get paid to administer contracts and contractors. And, Sam, you would not believe the number of retired or former bureaucrats, and politicians, who turn around and take fat jobs with the same contracting companies that they'd previously worked as watchdogs over. The corruption would make—" the man had paused and smiled at Sam "—would make a Chicago alderman blush."

"Sam, I'll tell you what else you wouldn't believe—the number of contracts I've seen that keep chugging on, year after year after year, long after the time that any idiot could see the whole thing was a boondoggle, just because some powerful congressman or some senior bureaucrat didn't want it to die." Glenn had been livid. "That's why I got out. I'd rather make 35 a year working as a substitute teacher in Evanston than have anything else to do with that bullshit."

Sam had lived on the periphery of Chicago politics for nearly half a century and had known, instinctively, that every word his friend had said was true.

Whatever original service the contractors at The Range had provided—illegal and wicked though it certainly had been—it was long past. The place now was a killing field, staffed by cut-rate second stringers, elite forces wannabes, and duds who'd washed out of military service, all of them likely paid peanuts to maximize the profit of a company like Valhalla.

Well, not anymore.

Sam didn't know who wassigning the checks, but he'd find out. He picked up the pack, opened it, andbegan going through the maps.