Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Vanguard?” I watch the horizon, then the doors, then the security cameras tucked under the overhang. “If they do, they’ll be waiting on land. Easier to contain. Less witnesses.”
He nods slowly. “You planning contingencies in case they show?”
“Always.” I tap my temple. “It’s a fucking circus up here.”
His mouth kicks up again. “Good. I’d hate to be the only one losing my mind.”
Three hours between the south and the north. Three hours of pretending we’re just two young guys skipping town. Three hours of counting every unfamiliar face, mapping exits, corners, blind spots.
I memorize the way the stairwells twist, how long it takes to get from the deck to the car bay. How many seconds it would take me to cut the angle to the nearest guard and steal his swipe card.
Old habits aren’t habits. They’re wiring.
When the call comes over the intercom telling everyone to head back to their vehicles, my muscles clench so hard it hurts.
The herd shuffles down, back into the metal cave. We slide into our car and the air is thick with exhaust and impatience. Kids fight. Someone’s baby screams. Someone else’s radio leaks shitty pop music.
I grip the wheel and stare ahead while the ferry docks, the whole structure shuddering as metal kisses concrete.
“North Island,” Beast mumbles. “Halfway.”
“Don’t say halfway,” I mutter. “Sounds like tempting fate.”
He snorts. “You think fate gives a fuck about us?”
“No,” I say, mouth twisting. “That’s the problem.”
The ramp drops and the sun slams into my face as we roll out into Wellington traffic.
It’s busy in that way cities are—too many cars, too many people. I keep to the left, follow the signs pointing north, shoulder tight, jaw tighter.
My eyes flick between the mirrors and the road, watching every vehicle that stays behind us longer than it should.
White sedan. Red hatchback. Black SUV.
We take an exit. They don’t.
The motorway straightens out once we’re past the worst of the city. Eight hours, Beast said. Eight hours to Tāwaha.
We pass through country sides of paddocks and broken fences and small towns. Some that look straight out of a movie, and others that you'd miss if you blinked. That's New Zealand. A bit of this and a bit of that.
“They could already be here,” Beast says, staring out his window. “Vanguard are fucking everywhere.”
“They got rules too,” I reply. “They have to explain why two of their favourite pets ran off their leash.”
He laughs once, dark. “We’re their favourite?”
“The fact that we're still alive tells me they don't want us dead.” I run my hand over my chin. “I don't think they're gonna be a problem. Remember they're not loud and messy. They have too much to lose by doing that. There's a reason why they're the government's henchmen.”
He goes quiet at that. Probably picturing all that we've just left behind. The Honeytrap Hive's and the Agent Hutts. What better place to breed and train an army of weapons for not just our country, but the entire Commonwealth, than in a country that you could bet would be missed out of most world maps. Or you know, they think is just a region of Australia.
Fitting. Send them all here. No one checks for the monster under the bed anymore.
We stop once for fuel. I let Beast handle the cash while I keep my hand near the gun wedged under my hoodie. The attendant barely glances up from his paper. My heart doesn’t get the memo as it hammers hard against my chest.
Back on the road.
Every car in the rearview is a threat. Too close? Threat. Same lane for more than five minutes? Threat. Suit and tie at the wheel? Threat. Group of teenagers in a shitbox? Bigger threat.
“Relax,” Beast says at one point, eyes closed, head tipped back. “You’re gonna have a stroke.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but my hands ease by a fraction. “You’re not watching the mirrors.”
“Yeah, but I’m watching you.” His lips curl. “You’ll tell me before we die.”
“Probably,” I say.
We trade off driving when my eyes start burning bad enough the road doubles. Beast takes the wheel, and I slump into the passenger seat with my boots up on the dash, watching him like I’m waiting for him to disappear.
He doesn’t.
Rain spits on the windshield for an hour then gives up. The light changes six times, from harsh midday to dull afternoon to that weird empty stretch before evening. We pass the sign for Auckland and keep going, muscles coiled, brains chewing through worst case scenarios.
Tāwaha shows up first as a faded name on a green sign, half-hidden by a tree.
Beast’s fingers flex around the wheel. Mine do around the gun.
“You see that?” he asks, like I might’ve missed it.
“I’m not blind.”
He exhales, slow, like it hurts. “This is it.”
I stare out at the crystal blue lake as it slides into view, the town wrapped around it like it was afraid to be too far. Quiet streets. A couple of bikes outside a bar. Laundry flapping behind a row of houses. If Vanguard is here, they’re wearing denim and drinking beer and pretending to be normal.