Trooper 4

0

The vast courtyard within the castle walls exploded with life. Commoner and noble alike were awed by the fountains of sparks that shot from brass barrels high into the evening sky. Tantalizing smells both sweet and savory drifted on the wind, along with music and laughter.

A young girl of three years wandered alone through the festival, her eyes filled with curiosity. She looked at every man and woman as if each was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. Older children played with a ball in a clearing, but she wasn’t interested in their games. The simple pleasures of an empty apple crate were more enthralling. It could be a cart, or a fort, or a boat…

Musicians, singers, and actors warmed up for the evening’s performance. Nearby, people waited patiently in line to gaze at the growing number of stars through the Royal Astrologer’s wondrous spyglass. And next to them, a bard sang the history of the land—great battles fought, great deeds done.

The girl was alone, but wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t in her nature to fear such a wonderland.

She ran. Through forests, streams, and hills, the girl ran till she could run no more. There was no thought behind this, only instinct and timing.

The city was dead. Lia was dead. Everyone was dead.

Everyone but her.

Exhausted, she collapsed at the top of a wooded hill. For a moment, she thought she saw a man hunched over a campfire, a strange blue dome next to him. But it was just her imagination. There was no man here—only trees, dead leaves, and darkness.

Shivering, the child covered herself in leaves and slept.

Day 1

1

The day started like any other. The sun came up, and in twelve or so hours it would go back down again. The world could end and this would still be true.

The early light of dawn filtered through brown curtains, staining the walls of the small bedroom. A woman in white briefs and a T-shirt slept on top of the brown covers, her arms and legs sprawled across the double bed like the chalk outline of a homicide victim.

The light began to drill through her eyelids. She winced and turned her head, but her brain had already started waking up. She opened her eyes. Beside her was a brown chair, a blue shirt, and dark pants crumpled on the seat. A belt draped over its back.

Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of what she saw. The clothes seemed out of place, like a clown at a funeral. Were they hers?

She lifted her head to scan the room. There was no sense of familiarity, none of the comfort you felt when you woke up at home.

Her heart beat faster; she wasn’t home.

It began to race when she had to admit she didn’t know where home was.

She sat up, grasping at the details of the room. A large TV sat on the dresser across from the bed. Beige carpet covered the floor. The bathroom door stood wide-open—white tiles and porcelain dimly lit by a small pane of frosted glass. No one there. The front door was shut, a notice framed on it. She got up for a closer look. No words, just a diagram of the room.

She opened the curtains and let the light pour in. Outside was a parking lot connected to a two-lane road with a police car stopped on its shoulder. Beyond that was nothing but dry grassland. Next to the parking lot was a tall sign—MOTEL—with an arrow that arced over the word and pointed down.

She went back to dress and stubbed her toe on something hard. She winced and looked at her feet.

A long pump shotgun lay on the floor next to the chair.

She jumped back as if the weapon would fire of its own free will. It must have fallen over, been propped against the chair. For a moment, her fear came from recognition; part of her knew why the gun was there. But as soon as she felt an answer creep forward, her mind pushed it back into the shadows. She looked to the nightstand. Next to the lamp was a black automatic pistol. She looked at the clothes on the chair again and saw a metal star glint on the blue shirt.

It was a uniform. The nametag under the five-pointed star read: T. Felice.

She had no idea if that was her name.

She tried on the clothes, put on the belt, but didn’t touch the guns. The uniform fit, but the nametag in the mirror was as indecipherable backward as it had been forward.

She was a cop? It didn’t seem to click with her. Aside from the guns and uniform, she could have been a reporter or an aristocrat and it would have made as much sense.

She looked back to the pistol on the nightstand. It was a Glock 22, which held fifteen .40 caliber rounds and was standard issue for many U.S. law enforcement agencies. The shotgun was a Mossberg 590—twelve-gauge, six shots.

She was pretty sure not many rich aristocrats knew that. Well, maybe if they lived in Texas.

She looked at the nametag again.

T. Felice.

Tonya? Tiffany? Tammy?

These names belonged to someone with a trust fund.

Toni? Thelma? Tash?

Those didn’t feel right, either, but Felice sounded okay. Felice it was until further notice.

She picked up the remote off the dresser and sat on the bed. She turned on the TV. Nothing. She pressed the power button again, tried to turn on the power manually, unplugged the set and tried another socket. Nothing.

Felice tried the lamp next to the TV, then the one on the nightstand, then the main room switch. No power anywhere.

Great.

There was a jingling in her pocket. She fished out a brass key attached to a plastic tag twice its size. On one side, it said MOTEL. On the other, 104.

Felice went to the door. She turned the handle, and then changed her mind. She went back, picked up the Glock, put it in the holster, and propped the shotgun back against the chair.

The air was still brisk this early in the morning. She walked out into the parking lot, which was empty. There was no sign of anyone else at the motel. There was no one in the police car across the road. That was most likely hers, too.

She raised her hand to her eyes and scanned the horizon, but there was little to see aside from flat grassland. Distant mountains skirted the edge of the world, and though the sky above was clear, dark thundering clouds loomed beyond the range.

Five or ten miles past the motel sign, a small city stuck out of the grassland like a concrete island. But it was all wrong. Smoke rose from half the city in thick black plumes, and once or twice she saw a lick of flame. Barely visible at this distance on the road was a pileup of cars that spilled off the shoulder and onto the grass. They, too, were smoking.

The day had started like any other. The sun came up, and in twelve or so hours it would go back down again. The world could end and this would still be true.

It had.

2

Felice ran back to the motel. Her instinct was to grab the shotgun, but by the time she was inside, she realized how pointless that was. There wasn’t another living soul in sight. Apart from the city, the pile of cars, and the mountains in the far distance, the motel was the only thing around. She was the only thing around.

Agoraphobia hit hard. She felt like a speck of dust in the grassy void of existence. She closed the door and braced herself against it, panting. For a moment, she thought she’d never leave the room again.

Felice shook her head. Whatever was going on, hiding under the bed wouldn’t help. She went back to the mirror. She didn’t know how amnesia worked, but knew different kinds were brought on by different events, such as injury or trauma. She didn’t see any bumps or bruises on her head. Judging by the burning remains of civilization down the road, trauma was a pretty safe bet.

She’d hoped the person staring at her in the mirror would have some answers. She didn’t. Short black hair, deep blue eyes, a shape somewhere between fat as a cow and thin as a bean pole (Were those farm metaphors? Was she raised on a farm?). Her reflection didn’t look familiar but didn’t look unfamiliar, either. She could have looked like anyone and she might have had this same numb non-reaction. A man’s reflection would have surprised her, though. That was something.

This is me, she said to the mirror. Whoever I am.

She stepped back outside, a sudden wave of claustrophobia beating out her agoraphobia. Assuming it was morning, she had some basic compass bearings to work with, but there was just as little to see out here now as five minutes before. A fresh billow of smoke and fire appeared on the far end of the city to the north and drifted upward, but that was all.

She strode to the police car. At least she could do something productive. The cruiser was a dark blue—so dark it was almost black—with two yellow stripes and the state police star on the doors. The passenger’s side door was jammed shut with a deep dent. Dust covered the hood and lights. She got into the driver’s seat and tried to start the engine. Dead. Not even a whine.

Goddammit.

She popped the trunk but found only a spare tire, jumper cables, and an empty gas can.

Felice looked back at the hotel. Not another car around? She could understand a place like this being empty, but what about the owners? Surely they lived here and had a car. Though if the city was any indication, maybe they were smart and got the hell out of wherever-she-was.

Where was she?

A hundred yards in either direction was a sign on opposite sides of the road, both facing away. She walked to the sign farthest from the city.

Now Entering

Fort Rock City Limites

Population 4000

The city was visible between the sign’s legs. Four thousand? One of the zeros must have come off; the city looked bigger than that. Presumably, the sign closer to the city had the standard Now Leaving City Limits on it, perhaps with a rustic Please Come Again tacked underneath. She covered her eyes from the sun to scan the rest of the world. Still nothing, aside from the dark clouds behind the mountains.

So I am T. Felice of the—she checked her star—Oregon State Police. I’m at a motel at the edge of Fort Rock. I have no memory, my car is dead, the city is on fire, and I slept with a pistol and shotgun within easy reach last night. Other than that, it looks like a nice day.

It was true; aside from those behind the mountains, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Felice sighed. There was only one place to go that didn’t require several hours hike. It couldn’t hurt to make sure the motel owners weren’t home. Maybe this lot was visitor parking only and their cars were somewhere behind the building. It was worth a shot.

The single-story motel was built in an L shape with a dozen rooms along its length. The short, disconnected stub at the bottom would be where the manager lived. A small restaurant sat beside it, or perhaps it was a convenience store. Maybe they just offered a jug of OJ and a plate of donuts as their continental breakfast. At the very least, there were a couple of vending machines outside.

At the door to the manager’s office, her gaze caught on something: the door was ajar (which was promising) because the lock had been forced (which was not). The splintered wood on the doorframe made her uneasy.

Felice looked down at her right hand. She had drawn her Glock without realizing it.

With her left hand, she slowly pushed the lobby door open, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Weapon ready, she stepped inside. Empty. She moved, slow and silent, behind the wood counter and checked every corner, but found nothing aside from a water cooler. She looked at the keys hanging on the wall behind the counter. Only Room 104 was missing.

She holstered the gun and began to relax. The break-in had probably been her own doing. She’d arrest herself later.

God knew what was going on in Fort Rock, but for now, at least, she was okay. She had to believe that or she’d snap. Given her amnesia, she’d most likely snapped once already. She tapped the desk bell, which shattered the suffocating silence, then just as quickly faded.

Hello? Anyone there? She didn’t expect an answer and wasn’t disappointed. Felice checked the phone. It didn’t work, of course. The motel register was open on the counter, but she couldn’t make out the names—they were just so many chicken scratches. Cheating couples and hookers with their johns trying to avoid a paper trail. The last name on the list wasn’t hers, but then she hadn’t seriously believed she would break into a motel fully armed, steal the keys, then politely sign the guestbook.

She rectified that now, taking a pen and writing T. Felice on the first fresh line, then 104 under the room column.

She looked at her handwriting. Very neat, not something you’d expect from someone who could kick in a door. She wrote in the comments box: Clean and tidy. Wasn’t disturbed all night. Would recommend to all my friends, if I knew who they were.

Felice searched the rest of the building. The manager’s room was locked. She found a key under the counter. No point in breaking down every door in the place.

It was another motel room, much like her own. The designer couldn’t have won many awards for creativity. The bed was made. The window didn’t face the sun, so the room was dim and filled with shadows. Felice shut the door.

As her fear subsided, long-term planning began to take root. She had to check the power, try to get the car running, and try to contact, well, anyone. She also had to hunt for food, and the restaurant was right next to the reception area. She wasn’t hungry—not yet—but it was the easiest thing to tick off her list.

The restaurant was well lit by three full wall windows. It was more of an enclosed patio than a solid structure. The blinds were up so she could see the main road. The smoking remains of the city were clear in the distance, as was the stalled cruiser about a hundred yards behind.

Don’t mind me, I’ll find a spot. Felice sat at one of the white hardtop tables, food forgotten for now, and watched the smoke and fire.

What the hell happened?

The scenario she had pieced together was this: she had bolted from the city like a bat out of hell, only to stall outside this motel. When she couldn’t locate a manager, she’d broken in, taken a key, let herself into a room, undressed, and collapsed in exhaustion. Whatever happened in Fort Rock was bad enough that she really wanted to forget it, and her brain had taken that bit of mental self-defense way too far.

She sat there, trying to make sense of the hell on the horizon. Another plume of fire and smoke rose from a building. It would have been massive up close, but from the restaurant it was a tiny puff of orange and black.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four… Somewhere around twenty, she heard a dull rumble. The fact there wasn’t so much as a breeze to hinder the sound unnerved her.

How did that work again? Five seconds to the mile? Four miles away? Maybe she was counting fast. Felice snorted. It was a pointless question. How about a better one: what was on the menu? Pancakes. She definitely felt like pancakes. And eggs. And bacon. And sausage. But mostly pancakes.

Only if there was no power, anything in the fridge had probably spoiled; even if it hadn’t, what would she cook with?

Felice looked to the kitchen and got up. Maybe they have Froot Loops.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement on the road. It caught her attention because it was something, not the same old nothing that existed along the rest of its length, surrounded by more grassy nothing.

Someone was walking out there. Felice strained her eyes to make out who it was.

Who cares? It’s someone!

She abandoned the hunt for dry breakfast cereal, ran out the door, and took to the road. People meant cooperation, support, and answers.

It turned out long stretches of nothing could skew your sense of depth perception. At first, she thought the person was maybe a mile down the road. Turned out he was a lot closer, and a lot shorter.

She slowed down as she reached him. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. He shuffled forward—dressed in a blue private school uniform—but didn’t react at all to Felice. She knelt before him; he almost bumped into her, but stopped at the last second.

Hey, you all right? she asked. The boy didn’t respond. Something told Felice to back up. She did, and the boy started moving once more. He swayed slightly from side to side, then stopped again when he reached her. Felice had the strange feeling the kid was moments from lunging and eating her brains. She looked at his downturned face. His skin was pink and healthy; his eyes looked normal.

Are you all right? she asked again. Still no response. My name is Felice. I’m a police officer. I want to help you, okay? The boy still stared at the ground, patiently waiting for her to get out of the way. When she did, he continued to shuffle forward. Felice followed alongside him.

Can you talk? Apparently not. Are you hurt? Apparently not. Can you tell me what happened? Apparently not.

She was starting to get angry. Geez, give me something to work with, here, kid. Tell me about yourself.

The boy stopped and blinked. Her words were starting to sink in. Sometimes you need the kick of a boot instead of the brush of a feather. She tried to keep the momentum going. Where are you from?

The boy turned and pointed to the burning city. Gone.

Pretty much figured that one out, thanks, Felice muttered under her breath, then repeated her earlier question. What happened?

The boy looked at her. His eyes were of the kind of hazel you couldn’t quite pin down, and his hair was somewhere between light and dark brown. He had the most confused look on his sad face. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, as if