Amos Morgan stumbled, almost losing his footing on the sidewalk’s cracked and uneven surface. His shoulder connected with bruising force against the brick wall of an abandoned tenement, wringing an involuntary gasp from his lungs.
He regained his balance and leaned against the rough bricks, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
The full moon painted the City’s deserted streets with an eerie phosphorescence. Amos strained to listen above his heavy panting. He held his breath, reducing the noise to a pounding heartbeat in his ears.
Nothing. If Trackers were closing in, they were in stealth mode.
“Conversion” refers to the complex surgical procedure by which a human being is transformed into a Tracker. The surgery is exceptionally risky — the melding of flesh and alien technology is fraught with complications.
The physiological changes are extensive and cannot be reversed. Statistically, this rarely results in a botched conversion.
Few doctors are qualified (or willing) to attempt the surgery. Fewer still are willing to go “on the record” when questioned by the Infomedia. Rumors of failed Tracker surgeries continue to cast a shadow over the Enclave’s elite medical facility. The ruling Council, citing Enclave Security, routinely labels these reports “unsubstantiated,” “classified,” and subject to vigorous Non-Disclosure Agreements.
Which leads to the proverbial “elephant in the room” question:
When a Tracker conversion fails, what becomes of the patient?
Councilor Harlan Sterne gazed out the conference room window, admiring his panoramic view of the Enclave’s prosperous city center.
He lounged in his high-backed leather chair, a satisfied half-smile playing across his lips. Here, in the Citadel—the seat of all power inside the Enclave—the anticipation of his imminent triumph was heady, intoxicating.
Everything was unfolding just as he’d anticipated. No, more than anticipated—planned, orchestrated, set in motion with the strategic cunning of a chess master.
There’s been a surprising amount of discussion—accompanied by a certain level of angst—about book promotion during the current pandemic.
The concern seems to be about the optics of promoting a new book you’ve written while readers may be struggling financially due to layoffs and stay-at-home sheltering orders.
Writers are understandably concerned about appearing heartless, callous, or tone-deaf about the real struggles faced by an overwhelmingly large swath of the population. Nobody wants to be lumped in with the selfish profiteers who bought up all the hand sanitizer for resale. Or those hoarding enough toilet paper to supply a Martian colony for a year.
Heavy rain slashed at Aubrey as she paused to take her bearings. She pulled the hood of her sodden jacket forward, shielding her face from the relentless downpour.
Of course — it’s raining. She smiled grimly, taking an odd solace in the bitter thought. Her shoulder still stung from the cuts she’d endured after squeezing through a barbed-wire fence.
A rainstorm is the perfect soundtrack to my Day From Hell.
There was no betraying sign of a Tracker, but that didn’t mean one of the soul-less killers wasn’t waiting just around the next corner. The City’s sprawling ruins offered a multitude of hiding places. Aubrey studied the broken-paned apartment across the street. She half-expected to spot the deadly glimmer of a Tracker’s scanning eye, staring hungrily down at her, but the windows were empty.
Like eye sockets in a skull. She grimaced, cursing her over-active imagination. Her hand moved to her abdomen, and she glanced down. Fear and loathing competed within her. I’ve got an Implant.The Hoarders …
It still seemed unreal. Why her? She caught herself and looked around in wide-eyed panic. Pay attention, Aubs! Don’t let your guard down!
She made a decision, stepping away from the crumbling tenement’s dubious shelter. Keep moving. She mentally repeated Sarah’s adamant advice. Don’t stand out from the crowd. Hidden in plain sight.
Water splashed over her feet as she crossed the desolate intersection, the traffic lights hanging dark and lifeless above her. She must find the other Runners — her life really did depend on it.
Keep moving. She sloshed through the ankle-deep puddles, ignoring her soggy footwear. Hidden in plain sight …
Aubrey reels from the news. Her heart pounds and dizziness threatens to overwhelm her. This can’t be happening. Why me?
It’s easy to feel resentful.
She’s doing the best she can, carving out a life for herself after the Hoarders completed construction on their walled Enclave.
Two years after what should’ve been her high school graduation — an event she’d only heard stories of — she moved north to a small village in search of work.
She doesn’t mind her job at the ramshackle café. Her boss is gruff but fair, and Aubrey managed to rent a tiny, but affordable, house in town. And when Thomas and Sarah moved in next door, Aubrey knew they’d become good friends. Things were looking up.
Her sense of well-being is short-lived.
Tonight, Aubrey sits in Thomas and Sarah’s kitchen, listening with stunned horror as they explain what a Tracker is, what it’s capable of, and the sinister meaning of “Harvest.” Their description of the soul-less creature is daunting enough, but Aubrey can’t fathom why it should matter to her, living so far from the Enclave.
Until a somber-faced Thomas pulls out a scanner, and Sarah gently turns the conversation to Implants.
The “Death in the Alley” scene represents a turning point (neither the first nor the last) in the fast-paced story of Tracker.
The first meeting of the two main POV characters, Amos Morgan and Aubrey Carter, isn’t your typical “Good afternoon, charmed to make your acquaintance introduction.”
Amos arms himself with a combat hunting knife, wishing for something deadlier. Aubrey’s life flashes before her eyes, and she almost forgets to breathe.
Everyone’s nerves are on edge, to say the least. Amos and Aubrey’s companions—Don, Sheila, Stephen, and the acerbic Jane “Snake Lady” Avery—share the same jittery trepidation. Narrowly averting disaster, the new acquaintances dare to relax, breathing a collective sigh of relief.
Then a third POV character—a Tracker—shows up.
And the body count starts to rise.
Trackers may be considered “soul-less,” but they are grimly efficient in their obsession with the “Harvest.” That Runners must die in order for the Trackers to collect their Implants is of no concern.
Amos is right—a combat knife is a mediocre defense against the brutality of an enhanced killing machine. But it’s all he has . . .
Amos was running long before he knew he was a Runner. The trauma from his twelfth year drove him, stalking his dreams, corroding his waking hours.
He did his best to control it, to put a clamp on the accusing inner voice, to block out the recurring nightmares.
Over time, he’d learned how to cope, to carve out a semblance of normalcy in the chaotic world they’d inherited after the Hoarders abandoned them.
Until the day it was confirmed by Doc Simon: the hated Hoarders had buried an Implant in his body — somewhere. And now he was fully a Runner, a human time bomb, and a threat to anyone close to him if his Implant activated.
And he was also a target for the subhuman Trackers. The blood-thirsty creatures would stop at nothing until they’d gutted him for the microtechnology hidden in his body.
The Enclave’s walls are impenetrable, insulating society’s richest — the Hoarders — inside their protective barriers. Outside, the majority of humanity is left to survive as best they can.
Two generations later, the Hoarders began kidnapping and experimenting on those outside their walls. The Implants — micro-technology surgically forced on their unwitting victims — convert ordinary people into lethal time bombs waiting to activate.
Thomas and Sarah are on the run, narrowly eluding the Trackers, the sub-human killing machines programmed and deployed by the Hoarders to exterminate anyone with an Implant.
The young couple’s instinct for survival is second only to their determination to save their friends, victims of the Implants, from certain annihilation.
This isn’t what their first year of marriage was supposed to look like.
