BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

More pass-images slid by as he waited. This much lag timeusually meant one thing: somebody out there was trying to run a trace.

He had nothing to worry about; his images were too random andvaried. He would log off long before he ran out. But why would a search on thiskid warrant a trace?

Maybe he should have logged off. But he didn't. Not until a knockcame at the door.

He stood. One hand went to his holster while the other reachedbehind his ear. He blinked as his vision of the room around him was restored, adisorienting blur at first. The kid remained sound asleep. Amazing, really.

When was the last time I slept like that?

The revolver slipped easily into his grip as he approached thefront door. He came alongside it and tapped the vidscreen. A hazy grey andwhite image appeared, its vantage point located above the doorframe. The twovisitors outside were shaved bald and wore long white robes. Both of them stoodwith their hands tucked into the cuffs of their generous sleeves, across theirmidsections.

Followers of the Way. Holy men.

Cult members.

He glanced back at the kid. He didn't want them waking him up. Buthe doubted they would leave before pounding on the door a few more times. Theyhad souls to save, after all.

Maybe he wanted the boyto enjoy what little peace he could beforereawakening to the nightmare his life had become. The man sighed. Maybe he justwanted the kid to sleep through the night so he wouldn't be any more troubleuntil morning.

Either way, the man holstered his revolver and wiped his handacross his face, rubbing away the exhaustion and frown lines. Trying to. Thesecult members were easier to get rid of when you put on your best fake smile andnodded a lot. He wondered if he had the energy for it.

"Good evening to you, Mr. Muldoon," said the one on theleft with a slight bow as soon as the door cracked open. The other one bowed aswell. "You are Harold Muldoon, unit 806? We hope we are not disturbingyour peace this evening."

Muldoon forced a smile and shook his head. But he gestured withhis hand that they needed to keep it down.

"My—kid's sleeping," he said in a half-whisper.He blocked their view inside by leaning against the doorframe.

They nodded, smiling up at him. Their skin was dark and flawless,their teeth stark white in contrast. "We will take only a moment of yourtime."

If that were true, they would have left already.

"We see that you are not Linked up at the moment," saidthe one on the right.

Very observant.

"Do you often?"

"Link up?" He knew where this was going. These cults—allof them, as far as he could tell—had something against the Link. They didn'twant their members turning into zombies.

Ironic.

"Yes," they said in unison.

He shrugged. "As much as the next guy, probably. Somethingwrong with that?" He had to feed them the right lines, get them on track.The sooner they shared their spiel, the sooner they'd get the hell out of here.

They nodded again, but their tight smiles dimmed.Earnest sincerity filled their eyes as they took turns imploring him, "Itwill destroy your soul, friend. It will take all that makes you human and leaveyou an empty shell." The one on the left shook his head emphatically."You must shed your interface, friend. Only then will you be free to liveas the Creator intended."

Some of these cults had their own quack surgeons who would, for agenerous donation, remove your plug in some empty supply closet and free yoursoul to be indoctrinated by their cult leader instead of LinkCom. It was atradeoff, obviously. It just wasn't so obvious to them.

"Do you ever feel that your thoughts are not your own—thatsomeone is always watching you?"

All the time. "You mean—that'sfrom Linking up?" Was he moving too fast? Just give me your inaneliterature and beat it already!

They nodded again, like a pair of marionettes minus the strings."Your soul yearns to be free, to live as the humans of old. And we canhelp you. We can free you from yourself."

If you only knew.

The door to the stairwell at the end of the hall creaked open as awet figure emerged with head and shoulders drooping, dripping. He stood thereswaying, drawing Muldoon's attention away from the two monks. The figureglanced up for only a moment before he ducked his head and shuffled off aroundthe corner.

The boy's father. In one piece.

"What the hell...?"

"Yes?" The holy man on the right craned his neck forwardto show he was listening.

Muldoon blew past them, his swinging holster catching theirstartled eyes. The door to his apartment slid shut as he took off down thehall, footfalls pounding.

The door slid shut, but not before one of the monks withdrew a kodachifrom his drooping sleeve and inserted the long blade between the door and itsframe, holding it open.

Muldoon reached the end of the hall and veered around the corner,fully expecting to find the wet figure of the soul he'd seen torn apart lessthan an hour ago.

But the hall lay empty.

His feet skidded to a halt as he stared. Instinctively, he reached for hisgun. Something wasn't right here.

"Hello?" his voice echoed.

The silent walls mocked him as if they knew he'd seen a ghost.Such behavior was out of character for him. They'd never seen him break hisstride before. Always calm, cool. Never out of sorts. He even looked out ofbreath.

Wet prints glistened across the tile.

It had been no ghost.

He droppedto one knee as he drew his gun. The flickering lightfrom above made the tracks clearly visible. They staggered up the hallway a fewmeters. Then they stopped. He followed them until they ended. They didn't turnright or left; they didn't double back. They just ended.

Like he vanished.

He swiveled his head, glancing from one side of the hall to theother. The vidcams above the doors recorded his every move. The most actionthey'd seen all night.

He holstered his gun and stepped toward the door on the right, hiseyes fixed on the last pair of wet sole prints. He curled his fingers into a fistand knocked once, twice. Loud enough to be heard, not so hard