1. Off Route 27A

            Yael Tucker sits in her dusty blue truck. There is a black cardboard cup filled with lukewarm tea in the cup holder. The radio is tuned to 87.3 FM, and hisses with static of a silent airwave. In the passenger seat, there is a shotgun and a box of cartridges. The right side-mirror has been smashed, and only a few shards of glass remain on the mirror’s mount.

            Above, the sky is pale blue. It is hot within the cabin of the truck. The windows in the doors are still up, and the light shimmers in the distance over the desert floor.

            The truck is a half mile off of Route 27A. 27A is the highway that leads between Towatki and Bajada before becoming simply Route 27 as it continues north toward Damana. Yael cannot see any of those cities from here. She is in the desert.

            A mile away, a rough rock cliff rises, and a few scraggly plants grow in its shadow. The truck dings at her, indicating that she should fasten her seatbelt while the vehicle is on.

            Yael turns the key, and the motor powers down. Her face is covered in sweat. She wipes her forehead, only to smear dark red blood across it. She looks down and finds that her sleeve is positively dyed crimson. She takes the shirt off, leaving only her sleeveless undershirt on.

            She has no idea where she is, except that she is just off route 27A.

            She does not know how she got there. She does not know how long she has been there. The clock on the dashboard reads that it is three in the afternoon. Her clothes stick to her because of the sweat, and her right arm is still red with blood. The light hairs on her arm are slicked down with it.

            Hesitantly, Yael grips the door handle and pulls. The door swings, creaking. She is shaking as she lifts one sore leg up and over the threshold of the vehicle’s cabin, stepping down on the desert hardpan.

            She steadies herself on the side of her blue truck, but it is painful. The metal has grown extremely hot in the sun. The oven-like air from the truck blasts its way out behind her. The air outside is hot as well, but it is a relief from the sweltering sweatbox from which she has emerged.

            She feels shaken, as if she had just experienced nausea. She stumbles slightly, freeing her other leg from the truck, but steadies herself. Her legs are burning with a powerful ache. She is thirsty.

            She walks around to the back of the truck. She keeps water in the covered compartment underneath the flatbed. When she comes around to the back, she finds that the tailgate is open. Its surface is dark with blood. She peers beyond it, and there is a man propped up against the back of the truck’s cab. It is his blood.

            The man is of a medium build and heavy. He has close-cropped curly hair and a dark beard. His eyes are closed. There are flies buzzing around him. If he is breathing, his breaths are shallow. He wears an olive-grey uniform that is stained dark with blood.

            There is a name on the uniform. It reads “Welker.” Welker has a holster on his belt, but the gun has been removed. There is a rusted and dinged shovel next to him.

            She climbs up into the back of the truck. Cautiously, she approaches Welker. He does not react. She places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Welker falls over. She feels his neck for a pulse. She cannot find one.

            The bloody trail does not end at the tailgate. Someone must have dragged Welker through the desert and gotten him up into the truck. The trail leads onward, out into the desert and up to that rough cliff. The trail shrinks to a vanishing point, but the direction is clear.

            She returns to the cab and retrieves the shotgun. She checks it and finds that it is unloaded. She takes a box of cartridges and stuffs it into her back pocket. The gun is heavy and the metal of the barrel is hot. Her bloody right arm is sore as she hoists the gun onto her shoulder.

            Half a mile down the trail, she finds the remains of a chain-link fence. There is a sign on the fence that reads “Warning: Trespassing Forbidden. Hazardous Environment.”

            The sign is covered in dust. It is bent and the paint has cracked.

            She returns to the truck. She puts the shotgun back in the passenger seat. She sits once again in the driver’s seat and turns the truck’s motor on.

            The truck jostles and heaves as it makes its way over the rocky hardpan. The radio signal remains a low static hum. There is a path that is clearly apparent, where dust has been kicked up and the scraggly plants have been flattened. Yael follows this path.

            As she approaches the rough cliff of dark red stone, it becomes clearer to her that it is very large. There are spires of gleaming metal and charred trees at the top of the cliff. In the bright daylight, it is hard to see, but she notices that there are flames licking the metal – bright, purple flames.

            Before long, the trail leads her to a road. The road circles the rocky cliff and then begins to ascend it. When she reaches the top, she finds a mass of wreckage. Metal beams, and a large metallic cylinder that has been smashed and is charred lie across the top of the cliff. There is what appears to be some kind of ruined building beneath the wreckage, but there is so much debris that it is hard to be sure.

            Closer now, the vibrant purple flames are easier to see. The flames hover in midair, as if they are burning invisible objects. There is a body in the road before her.

            The body looks like a rag doll that had been tossed aside by a child at play. She stops the truck. She steps out and approaches the body. It is a man wearing dark blue camouflage. His face is painted in similar patterns. There is a dark fluid coming from his eyes. It is pungent and unpleasant and deep black. The body itself has shrunken. It has been out in the sun for a long time. Several days, at least.

            Yael returns to the truck. She opens up the compartment with the water. Alongside several gallon-sized jugs is a jacket. It is the same olive-grey color and style as Welker’s. She picks it up. The name on the jacket reads Tucker.

            Yael drinks some of the water. She then pours some over her arm. The blood was clearly not hers, and as far as she can tell, she is free of injury. She imagines it is Welker’s. She does not know who Welker is, or rather was.

            Yael looks out over the desert to the east. The Great Sarona stretches out for thousands of miles before her. Yael takes a deep breath. She sees a glimmer out in the desert. There is something there. Either it is reflecting the sun’s light or it is itself a light.

            “…tion… A-7-6-B. Release… Station…” the radio blurts. Yael returns to her truck and attempts to better tune the radio, but she cannot find a stronger signal than that on 87.3.

            She drives down the hill. There is a road here that leads back in the direction of Towatki. She drives off of it, instead heading east. The signal on the radio grows stronger.

            “Station A-7-6-B. Release Measures…”

            She drives for nearly an hour. The battery indicator on the dashboard drops from 75% to 65%. The radio signal grows clearer. The message, on repeat, goes thusly:

            “Station A-7-6-B. Release Measures Engaged. Breach Observed. This is not a drill. Breach Observed. Templar One has lost containment.”

            The blinking white light comes closer. Alone in the vast desert plain, there is a small building, not much larger than a freight container. The building is a half-cylinder of corrugated steel. Next to the building is a short radio tower. It is from the top of this tower that the brilliantly bright, flashing light emits.

            Yael gets out of the truck, once again taking the shotgun with her. She loads the gun, but keeps the safety on. She approaches the door of the building. It is slightly ajar.

            She opens it and steps inside. There is a desk with a microphone and radio equipment. In the back of the building is a computer console with several monitors. Some of the monitors read “Containment Failure.”

            Sand has blown in through the door and has collected in a small cone.

            Yael walks over to the computer console. The central monitor indicates that of the five containment facilities, two have been breached.

            “You’re back,” says the man behind her.

            Yael turns. The man is white, with short, thinning hair and dark sunglasses. He wears a black suit. He smiles, but she does not think it is a friendly smile.

            “I see you haven’t buried him yet. It’s been a while. I would worry about the smell. Bury him in just a foot or so of soil and that will do.”

            “Where am I?”

            “Just off Route 27A.”

            “What is this building?”

            “Your office.”

            “Who are you?”

            The man in the black suit shrugs.

            “You don’t remember either?” asks Yael.

            “No, I remember just fine,” says the man in the black suit. “You really should bury him. He deserves it.”

            The radio recording is playing out loud in the room. She hears that name again: Templar One.

            “What is Templar One?” asks Yael.

            “I was hoping that you could tell me,” says the Man in the Black Suit.