Compile:Quest

Prologue:Black Sunday

Bloemfontein, South Africa

14 February 2037

Eric came to a stop, his ears straining for the sound of the girl's terrified whimpers.  As he moved through the farmhouse, the scuffed floorboards protested his weight in a series of creaks and groans. He arrived in the kitchen.

 A quick scan established the room to be empty.

"Where are you?" he called out, his voice tight. 

A scrape on the floor behind him made him spin around. A young boy stood in the kitchen's entrance, his red-knuckled fingers clasping a shotgun. The muzzle dipped as the boy's reed-thin arms quivered.

"You don't want to do that," Eric said, lifting his hands to his head. 

His hazmat suit crumpled loudly at the elbows. The boy's eyes narrowed, his lips compressing as he took aim. He screamed as Eric dove at him and tore the shotgun from his hands. Eric straightened and cracked open the shotgun. He emptied the shells into his palm and threw the gun into the corner of the room. His hand closed around the boy's wrist before the child could dart away.

"Los my!" the boy yelled, jerking his arm to escape Eric's grasp. 

"Where is she?" Eric hissed. Tears streamed down the boy's grubby face. He paled as Eric shook him. "Where is she?" 

"Los my uit!" the boy cried. 

Damn, he would be Afrikaans, wouldn't he? Eric took a knee in front of the boy, easing his grip.

"Where..." He paused as he translated in his mind. "Waar is jou... uh... suster?" 

"Sé nie vir jou nie," the boy mumbled. The boy's eyes grew wide. Then he shook his head. "Voetsek!" 

Eric's grip tightened and the boy stopped speaking, perhaps realising he wasn't in a position to negotiate. 

"I'm here to help you, you little shit. Tell me where she is!" 

The boy's lips trembled, his bravado evaporating. Eric heard a moan. The boy's eyes shot to the floor behind Eric, panic etched across his face. Eric pushed the boy away and spun around to scan the room. The kitchen held little in the way of furnishings — a table with flaking white paint, four rickety chairs and a woven rug. 

Eric toed back the rug with his boot. The ancient floorboards met in a neat line that ran under the kitchen table. The table was a massive thing. Eric glanced back at the boy, scrutinising him. 

"It's too heavy for you," he said. "They put her in there, hey? Left you in charge with the gun?" 

The boy huddled against the wall. A trickle of blood ran down one skinny leg. Tears coursed through the grime on his face and dripped from his chin. "Your folks show you how to shoot that thing?" 

"Los ons uit," the boy said, but his voice wavered. 

"I wish I could leave you alone," Eric muttered, pressing his hip to the table and sliding it across the floor. 

He kicked the rug away, stuck his finger in the latch, and hauled the trapdoor open. Inside the darkness of the cellar, the girl screamed. Eric glanced around for a light switch and then rolled his eyes at his own idiocy. He stepped into the cellar and hesitated, the image of the girl aiming a shotgun at his nuts giving him pause.