Flash Fiction #3: Scorpion’s Sting
“How long will that hold if the Trackers find us?”
Aubrey Carter cast a dubious eye on the trapdoor at the top of the stairs, dreading the answer.
Sheila and Garr exchanged glances. The Colonel gave Aubrey a rueful grin. “How long does it take to unwrap a Christmas present?”
“It’s only meant to be camouflage,” Sheila said. “It was never intended as a barricade.”
Aubrey drew a shaky breath. She’d expected their response, but having her suspicions confirmed was still unsettling. “Thanks for a straight answer.”
Garr handed her the flashlight. “Bluntness is our ally. Candy-coating reality helps nobody.”
Aubrey toggled the switch with her thumb. The flashlight stabbed through the dusky subbasement. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light as she trained it on the arch at the opposite end of the tunnel.
“Feeling nostalgic?” Sheila nudged her with an elbow. “You’ve got that ‘I’m going to miss this place’ look on your face.”
Aubrey laughed in spite of the tension. Sheila had a way of lightening the mood, no matter their circumstances. “Miss sleeping on the floor in a concrete bunker? I may never get a good night’s sleep again.”
Her laughter faded and she absent-mindedly traced the scar just below her sternum, where Doc Simon had extracted her Implant. “It’s just … my whole world’s been turned upside-down these past six months. And this Hub – even though it’s a damp, smelly dump – has been the only home I’ve known since.”
She aimed the flashlight at her right arm. The beam threw the rough scars into harsh relief, from her fingertips to just below her elbow, where the ridged tissue disappeared into her sleeve. She stretched her disfigured fingers to their widest extent and then made a fist. “Battle scars. I’m a survivor. Some day, they’ll be my only reminder of life under the Old City.”
“Amen to that,” Garr said. He gestured down the dank corridor. “Let’s not keep our Hoarder ‘allies’ waiting. Mateo says they’re running out of time inside the Enclave.”
“Mateo says.” Sheila’s terse monotone underscored her reply. She shook her head, dark eyes luminous in the flashlight’s artificial glow. “Let’s hope trusting him isn’t the worst mistake we’ve ever made.”
The Colonel heaved a sigh. “Like I told Doc, it’s like dancing with a scorpion. We’re out of options and out of time. It’s a risk we have to take.”
Dancing means close proximity. Aubrey kept her suspicions to herself, hiding her clenched fist inside her pocket. A scorpion can’t help itself — it’s their nature to sting.
And their Hoarder “allies” … Aubrey considered them half as trustworthy and twice as toxic.
Scorpion (Tracker Book 3) available at:
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