The Numbered

Chapter Nine

She stopped, so he stopped. A woman approached her with what looked to be a bag of rags. The woman was filthy, her skin covered in pussy spots and sores around her mouth. Holding a makeshift cane she lent on it and opened the bag to show the girl. After a few moments the girl shook her head and the woman looking defeated lowered her head and began to limp away.

"Wait" she called and the woman turned. "You can keep your stuff, but please take this." The girl passed the woman a coin.

The observer shook his head. Just what we need, another bloody good Samaritan, he thought to himself. The woman clearly unaccustomed to such kindness looked shocked. She lifted her hand up to accept the money, but then faltered.

"Why, what you trading?" she asked, her accent heavy and vocabulary limited.

"Nothing, please have it. Buy something for your little ones."

The woman stared hard at the girl, a long cool stare that made him a little nervous. He'd had his orders to use any force necessary to protect her. He gripped the gun in his pocket holster. However, the observer's fears were not realised as the woman's icy stare cracked and she began sob loudly. The girl moved quickly and took the woman in her arms, stroking her dirty hair until the sobbing subsided. The observer couldn't believe his eyes. Was this girl for real? Not only had she offered her money, she was now sat holding and comforting the woman as if she was wounded animal.

The woman turned to face the girl. "Thank you" she said quietly and squeezed the girl's hand as she took the coin. Such a show of emotion in the middle of the busy market square should have raised an audience, but strangely it didn't. He supposed that most people found it easier not to watch, not to experience somebody else's suffering when they had enough of their own to contend with.

The observer was about to move off, when he realised the girl did have one other person taking a special interest in her. Dressed in grey overalls and a brown coat with a dirty sheepskin lining, a casual, untrained eye wouldn't have picked him out from a crowd. But the observer knew. The clothing was right, the hair was dirty and unkempt enough, it was the way he moved that gave him away.

So, it had started.

"One mark. Grey trousers, brown coat, brown hair. Positioned to left of the bakery. Rotate every four minutes. Maintain your distance at all times and don't lose her," he ordered.

It was no longer safe for him to be on the street. He would have to leave it to the others. The observer hurried back to the black van, unlocked the back door and jumped in.

The observer pulled the spare, unregistered phone from out of his jacket and dialled. He had a fifty-fifty chance of getting through. Communications in this sector were lousy. The phone rang out twice and was then picked up.

"It's started."

"Are you sure?" came the reply.

"One agent on the ground, maybe more, following her." He emphasised the word, her.

"They will move her any day, so you'd better make contact, quick."

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied.

"Take care, Zeke."

He put down the phone and picked up the black and white image of Hannah Green from a plastic folder. Nineteen other folders were splayed across the floor of the van. Having followed the Twenty, as they were known, for many years, he'd frequently thought that what they were doing was a monumental waste of time. Twenty kids, all different and all adopted following the Eastman's interventions. As the years went by and six of them died before their 8th birthday due to ill health or malnutrition, he'd often thought upon Eastman's plan as cruel and inhuman. Another had been killed last year in a riot at a supply drop and a further three were currently incarcerated for petty crimes. If their crimes had been more serious, they would also now be dead from a lethal injection to the neck.

Of the remaining ten, he had observed, followed and tracked them all. None of them had ever appeared that special. Until today. It was Hannah's single, unselfish action in the market that stuck with him. He stared down at the picture of Hannah and remembered the look on her face as she sat on the damp, cold pavement holding the woman. That small act of kindness settled something in his mind and gave him an unfamiliar feeling in his gut. It was a feeling of hope, he realised. Out of the remaining nine, he'd been convinced one of them might be, the one. But maybe, just maybe, it would be her.

The other Nine had been brought up in similar circumstances to hers, each of them self-reliant, single-minded, with the same desperate urge survive. After all, it took a great deal of strength just to carry on living here. But whether they had the desire for this kind of struggle was another matter entirely. Hannah though, had been different all along. She had never exhibited the same mental toughness the others had. He would soon find out.

Zeke climbed through a small opening in a false wall and clamoured over into the front seat. He was about to drive off, when the phone rang.

"What is it?"

"Shit man, they have a bloody army in pursuit. Three on the ground and two up high, I don't like this at all," Bryant, his second replied. "Want me to take them out?"

"Negative Bryant, they aren't watching her, they're looking for us. We aren't ready to start a war just yet. Pull everyone back immediately. They aren't going to hurt her; they need her as much as we do".

Zeke switched off the phone and stowed it in a hidden pocket beneath his seat. He checked his mirrors, pulled out of the parking lot and headed off to his day job.