Five hours later, the plane began its descent, the women’s ears readjusting as the sound of the engines shifted lower. Out the opposite window, Erika could see a haze of thick fog over the verdant land of rocky, long hills. A small village emerged into view at the water’s edge. It looked old, old as the land.

  The aircraft touched down on the choppy waters with a thudding bang. Erika gripped her seat restraints harder and gasped. The plane bounced up and wobbled before going down again with another thump, staying on the surface of the water.

  The engines slowed their incessant humming; the plane turning in the water as it moved toward the harbor, Erika and Betty catching glimpses of the world outside through the small windows. They unclasped their restraints and unsteadily got to their feet, stretching their limbs after being locked in place while keeping their balance.

  The plane moved its way to a dock and settled in alongside. Outside, men hastily tied lines around the vehicle’s cleats and secured the aircraft in place. Margaret powered off the engines and walked back from the cockpit. She looked to the two roommates, holding herself steady against the bulkhead as the plane rocked back and forth.

  “How was your ride?” she asked. “It’s not very comfortable, but if you’re not buckled in and we hit some turbulence, you could break an ankle or worse.”

  “It was fine,” Erika said kindly, and held up the book she’d been given. “Interesting read. A bit… thick.”

  “Try Plato,” Betty quipped, smacking a hand down on the heavy volume in her lap.

  The muscular woman smiled. She moved to the hatch and with both hands twisted the handles, popping it open. The door swung out, and a small ladder unfolded. She ducked outside, her large frame evident through the comparatively small opening, and got to work helping the dockworkers finish their business with the aircraft. She thanked them as the men hurried on with their duties. One man started hauling over a long hose to refuel the plane.

  Inside the craft, Meera strode from the cockpit. She looked stern and serious, her jacket zipped all the way up, gloved hands at her side, right hand near her holstered pistol. Erika suspected she enjoyed her mix of beauty and danger and wondered how she spent her days as Ravi’s wife with nothing to intimidate.

  “Ready to shoot someone?” Betty remarked.

  Meera shifted her stance slightly. “If it weren’t for me, you two would be dead or captured.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing.” Betty responded calmly. “You just look on edge.”

  “Someone here needs to be prepared.”

  “Don’t go looking for a fight, because you’re bound to find one,” Betty advised.

  “It’s gonna find us no matter what, darling.” Meera snipped at her and left the aircraft.

  Erika shook her head at her roommate. “You should follow your own advice. Don’t piss off a lady with a gun.”

  “She was ready to shoot us to get what she wanted; don’t forget that.”

  Margaret stepped back onto the plane, having just seen the scowl on Meera’s face as she exited. “Don’t forget she’s desperate to save her husband, either.”

  Betty cocked an eyebrow. “Alright, tough girl. I relent.”

  The tall woman smiled back warmly at her. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “A drink? And then you’re gonna fly this plane again?” Betty noted incredulously.

  “This may come as a surprise, but I can handle my booze.”

  Betty looked her over and smirked. “I bet you can.”

  “Sorry if you wanted to take advantage,” Margaret winked at her.

  Betty let out an uncharacteristic giggle and then shook her head in embarrassment.

  Erika watched the exchange in amusement, and then picked up the satchel from under her seat and pulled the strap over her head. She exited the aircraft first, Margaret standing by the door. Betty grinned up at her as she approached. “Just so you know, I’m a bit of a lightweight. Just, fyi…” she returned the wink.

  “Good to know.” Margaret smiled and followed her out.

  They stepped out onto a long wooden dock, boats and trawlers tied up, with several more out in the bay casting nets. Erika exchanged simple greetings with a couple of locals as Margaret led them from the marina and into the quaint fishing village. Colorful houses, brick buildings, and wind-battered sheds spread across the hillside that rose steadily from the shore. The land was green and wet, a thick fog lurking in the distance, a few dozen people milling about, going through their day’s routine.

  “You’ve been here before?” Betty asked, walking beside Margaret as Erika and Meera trailed separately.

  “Yeah. Few times.”

  “Why’s that? You’re the manager of a club.”

  “Among many things. I do a lot of different jobs for the Lady. Including the restaurant, but that doesn’t take up too much time. She has, uh, interests around the world, I guess you could say, so I end up traveling pretty often.”

  “She has you flying around the world?” Betty scoffed. “The club is just a side hustle? Or a front?” She mimicked a gasp. “You’re smugglers! What are you smuggling? Is it narcotics? Guns?”

  “Uhh…” Margaret had to think. “No, nothing like that. But actually, I have smuggled before,” she said with some pride, then added, “It was medicine.”

  Betty snickered, somehow unsurprised. “How valorous of you.”

  “The Lady is. I’m just here to help.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, sweetheart,” Betty said and rubbed Margaret arm through her jacket. She moved her hand around, wrapping both her arms around hers. There was a feeling of comfort, safety and intimacy she hadn’t felt before. Margaret gazed down at her, their eyes meeting and lingering.

  The moment passed as the loud hum of the gas pump fired up, re-fueling their plane. Betty glanced behind her to see Erika grinning at her. She rolled her eyes in response and pulled away slightly from the tall woman. “So, what brought you here enough times to have a favorite watering hole?”

  “I meet up with Qillaq here when he needs me. He’s Inuit, and the Lady will send supplies if there’s a bad fishing season, a storm, that kind of thing. There’s not much outside help for these communities.”

  “What’s he like, Qillaq? I heard the Lady call him an ‘old colleague’, which has my mind reeling with questions.”

  “Don’t let that frighten you; he’s great. Straightforward, honest, not so… obfuscating as the Lady.”

  “Obfuscating? Wow. That’s a five-dollar word.”

  “I may look like a dumb grunt, but I can read.”

  “You do not look anything like that,” Betty smiled. “I’m just… even more impressed.”

  Margaret blushed. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Qillaq speaks his mind, though. He’s not one for bullshit, and if you’re wasting his time, he’ll put you in your place.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  Behind the two women, Erika listened in with bemusement. She’d seen Betty flirt before, many times, but never with another woman. Maybe it was the freedom of being away from her social group and the mores of life in a city, even for a segregated woman.

  Meera kept some distance at the rear, observing what few townsfolk she saw and how they were reacting to them. She couldn’t get a clear read on the situation, being in an unfamiliar foreign land, but she still got the feeling of being unwelcome.

  The group continued up an empty, wide gravel lane where, in Margaret’s memory, trucks and hand-drawn carts alike had cluttered the road, pulled along by strong, old men. On either side of the street were a variety of shops: a post office, a dry goods store, a handmade clothing boutique, and other quaint establishments of the small community. The town was subdued, withdrawn, and it made Margaret uneasy. Shops were closed, windows dark, and the few people she saw hurried to get on with their business. The tall woman slowed her stroll to a halt, her brown eyes searching for any hint of what had changed. She turned and gazed out at the harbor. There was the usual activity out in the water, with most of the boats out casting their nets or pulling in their traps. If she hadn’t been familiar with the town beforehand, she’d never have guessed anything was amiss.

  “What’s wrong, Margaret?” Meera asked.

  “Not sure.” She looked around and turned back up the slope. “Come on. It’s just up ahead.”

  Setting off again more urgently, the group passed more low buildings, coming to a wide intersection, the center of town, where a church loomed. A large hall with a wide entrance was ahead on their right, the meeting place for the village council and community. Ahead of them on the left was a tavern, chimney puffing smoke, with a wrap-around porch and a short set of muddy stairs leading up to a beaten door. A sign hung with a carving of a whale. Margaret proceeded slowly, taking measure of what activity she could glean through the hazy windows. It looked empty.

  She passed through the entrance, her companions following in silence, and met a gloomy stillness. A fire was burning low in a broad hearth at the center of the room. Covered with ornaments, trophies, photos and anything else that would hold to its old hand-packed bricks. The flames wafted in the breeze from the open door before it banged shut again behind Meera. Long tables and shabby chairs were unarranged and dispersed about the room. Along the right wall, the bar ran the length, empty of drinkers. Behind it, a man wandered into view. Margaret knew him. Sakkias. Early fifties, with a long, shaven face, combed gray hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore a colorful knit sweater, the loudest thing in the room. A loud pop from the fire prompted a yelp from Erika.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Sakkias looked at Margaret blankly. Not the greeting she was expecting. Turning her head, eyes on her companions, she said. “Be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Erika whispered.

  “To run,” Betty answered warily. “We’re not prepared for a fight.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Meera said and put her hand on the pistol at her hip and stepped back against the wall on one side of the entrance.

  “Erika,” Margaret signaled for the woman to stay near her. The young woman hurried over to her, keeping close as the tall woman drifted to the fireplace. Sakkias was patient and silent. Betty moved to the other side of the doorway, following Meera’s example, and wishing she had a weapon as well.

  The older man moved closer along the bar toward Margaret, and she moved to meet him, his face cast in deathly seriousness.

  “Men arrived this morning,” he said plainly. “Armed, outfitted for war.”

  Margaret frowned. She looked at Erika beside her, who clutched the bag tighter. “Like the men at Max’s office.”

  “Probably,” Margaret agreed.

  “How did they know we’d be here?” Erika asked.

  “No idea,” Margaret said.

  Sakkias asked, “Are you armed?”

  “Not well enough. If we make it back to the plane…”

  The older man reached under the bar, pulled out a pump-action shotgun and slammed it on the worn wooden surface.

  Margaret recognized it and grinned. “Ol’ Bruisie.” She hefted the gun and took a firm, familiar grip. “When’s Qillaq due?”

  “He should have been here by now.”

  She nodded and said sincerely, “Sakkias. I owe you for this.”

  “You’ll never owe me anything,” he responded, then his eyes darted to the windows, and his stern expression broke. Margaret turned around to see a group of five men, armed with guns, dressed in dark mismatched military uniforms.

  “Meera, you’ve got Erika,” Margaret said as she marched for the entrance.

  The petite woman nodded and intercepted an unsteady Erika. “Get behind me and stay low.” Meera moved to the corner of the fireplace, handgun held at the ready, eyes taking in everything, working through various scenarios in her mind.

  Margaret pulled her revolver from inside her jacket and handed it to Betty. “You know how to use this?”

  “I have a rough idea,” she answered nervously.

  “Keep it pointed at the ground, finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot something. And stay behind me.”

  “We’re going out there?!”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  Margaret stepped outside, shotgun held firmly as she walked down the stairs to the dirt road. Betty took a deep breath, put her mind at ease as she had done countless times in stressful situations at school, and tried to convince herself this was no different, telling herself to shut up otherwise. She followed her out, sticking close; doors banged shut behind her. She looked over the imposing men, their expressions cold and unwavering. Their uniforms were without insignia, seeming to be a hodgepodge of different nationalities, like the men themselves. Each held a gun of some sort, though none leveled at Margaret or her.

  They were silent, waiting.

  From the center of the group emerged a woman in a long purple dress that covered her shuffling feet. She was tall, pale, with long, loose red hair down her back, expression placid. She was completely out of place and in charge.

  “Hello Margaret.” She said in a deep voice.

  “Hello,” Margaret responded. “Where’s Qillaq?”

  “On his way.”

  Margaret nodded.

  “You know this lady?” Betty asked behind her.

  “No,” Margaret answered frankly. Looking at this strange woman, “What’s your name?”

  She cocked her head. “Let’s see… here, you may call me Sedna.”

  “What else do you go by?” Margaret asked.

  “Mostly… disobedient,” she answered gravely. “But on this occasion, I am here for a friend. Give me the bag.”

  Betty spoke up. “What the hell is in that damn thing?”

  The woman straightened up. “You don’t know?” She looked at them with concern. “The Lady isn’t playing very fair. With you. This world is at an end, and so we must prepare for the next. Your friend there is carrying the key to theosis.”

  Margaret made a face. “Okay.” She looked back at Betty, her expression a question.

  “Something to do with theology,” she assumed.

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Religion,” Betty clarified.

  “Oh.”

  More packs of armed men emerged from down the various roads, closing in on them.

  “There is no haven from him,” the woman called Sedna continued. “He sees with a thousand eyes and flies with a hundred wings. You’re always within his grasp. The fangs of starved wolves are closing around your throats, lost in a forest of death where you’ll never find the sun.”

  The squads of men coalesced around the original five. Margaret guessed there could have been twenty or more.

  “What are we doing?” Betty asked quietly.

  “Not sure.” Margaret said regrettably.

  A loud roar filled the air. The army men recoiled, ducking out of instinct, while Sedna stood unmoved, her gaze drawn inside, finding Erika through a murky window.

  Margaret realized the sound was an engine. It came from beyond the crowd. Shouts and yelling immediately followed as the mechanical clamor raced toward them. A pickup truck crashed into view, men scattering or rolling over the top of the vehicle as it rammed into the stairs, debris flying; Betty dove to the deck floor. Margaret recoiled, but held her ground. She opened her eyes again; the woman was gone, but Margaret gawked as she saw the familiar, serene face of Qillaq, an ageless Inuit man with a firm jaw and short, unkempt black hair, behind the wheel of the truck. He leaned out the open window and said with a hint of pride and nary a bit of concern, “Good timing, huh?”

  She beamed back at him and then back into the tavern. “Meera! Erika! Get out here!”

  Margaret pulled Betty to her feet. “Get in the back.” She pushed her forward, and the woman rushed over the hood of the truck and into the bed.

  Spotting one man aiming his gun, ready to fire, Margaret quickly blasted off the shotgun, pelting the man with buckshot and knocking him to the ground. She saw another, aimed and fired again.

  Betty, lying flat, took a breath, held the gun to her chest and then peeked up, aimed at a soldier who was getting ready to shoot at her, and squeezed the trigger. His head snapped back, and red mist plumed.

  She just killed a man, and on her first try. She was going to be a doctor, and she just shot him in the head. How did she manage that? She’d never fired a gun before. Betty aimed at another and fired; again, her bullet ripped through a soldier’s skull. “Jesus Christ.” This was disturbing.

  From the tavern, Erika and then Meera sprinted out. Erika jumped onto the truck hood and lunged into the bed, lying low, the only one unarmed. Meera held back on the wooden deck, knelt and fired off round after round, aiming precisely, taking out three more men in quick succession as bullets zipped through the air. She leaped onto the truck and slid over the roof into the back, taking position and continuing to fire at the soldiers, emptying a clip and then reloading with a few swift, well-practiced movements.

  Margaret turned back and glimpsed Sakkias inside the tavern and nodded before jumping onto the hood of the truck as Qillaq revved the engine and pulled back out, spinning around, hitting more of the military mob as several fired off rounds, the body of the truck pelted with bullets, but narrowly missing any of the women.

  Margaret pulled herself up to the windshield as the truck sped down the road and moved herself around and through the open passenger window.

  “What the hell is going on?!” Margaret demanded.

  “Well… things have gotten worse since you left Providence,” Qillaq responded cooly. “For the world,” he added, “Not just you. If that’s any comfort.”

  Margaret looked at him cynically. “Really not. There was a woman back there. Called herself Sedna.”

  “Sedna…” Qillaq considered that.

  “Not her actual name. She was toying with us. Said some ominous bunk about there being ‘no haven from him’. And something about claws and wings. It was a whole… thing.”

  “Ah. Okay,” Qillaq said, seeming to understand now. “She’s trouble.”

  Behind them, a large military vehicle roared around a corner. Soldiers were leaning out of the windows, guns aimed. They immediately opened fire.

  The women ducked low, and Qillaq swerved and turned down an alley between two shops. The heavy vehicle, its tires tearing up the ground like a rotor, attempted the same maneuver and smashed into the side of a building, destroying a deck and part of a wall. It barely slowed.

  Qillaq pressed harder on the gas, racing down the tight passageway, zipping past houses and yards. The lumbering beast of a vehicle behind them gained, crashing its way onward without regard for destruction.

  Not far ahead, at the end of the alley, two soldiers appeared and sprayed the front of the truck with bullets. Qillaq and Margaret ducked, the windshield punctured and cracked from multiple impacts. Without looking up, the Inuit man sped up and rammed the attackers at full speed. One went under, the other over the hood and into the side of a building. Qillaq turned sharply to the left, wheels grinding into the ground, dirt spraying in a wide arc, the truck angling toward the harbor. Margaret looked out at the bay. “Shit. The plane.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s taken care of. That’s why I was a little late.”

  The truck bounded down the hill, swearing to avoid hastily assembled roadblocks set up by more militiamen.

  “How many are there?!” Margaret asked as they sprang from every corner and rooftop.

  “You don’t want to know,” Qillaq said without a hint of sarcasm.

  The truck hurtled down uneven roads, through yards and gardens, over mounds that sent the vehicle spiraling. Racing around one last corner, mud flinging, they arrived at the harbor. Qillaq didn’t stop until they ran out of road, slamming on the brakes as they thudded onto the wooden docks.

  “Get out!” He ordered, and the women rapidly unloaded. Margaret realized he wasn’t following.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “You’re not getting out of here with that mob shooting at you. Get your ass moving and I’ll draw them off.”

  “You’re a dead man if you don’t come with us!”

  Qillaq smirked, “Please. I’m the last person you need to worry about. You’ll be safe in Silaannaq, for a while at least.” He jammed the stick shift into reverse and added, “So don’t dawdle.” He floored it backwards, peeling out, and then charged forward at the approaching mass.

  “Fuck,” Margaret exhausted. “Let’s go!”

  Gunfire clamoring in the distance, the sound of vehicles revving and racing, the four women raced down the dock toward the waiting plane. No one in sight. The buff woman could only hope they had followed through on refueling it. She jumped onto the plane’s pontoon, pulled open the hatch and pulled the other women on board, dragging them in fiercely.

  She lunged in after them and secured the hatch before dashing to the cockpit. Meera was already getting underway, the engines spinning to life as Margaret took her seat and pulled on her headset.

  The plane pulled back from the dock, a few bullets dinged and thudded on the hull as they turned and throttled forward, speeding up over the water. The seaplane steadily rose into the air, and they were away.

  Once they had set course and the plane was at altitude, Meera looked over at Margaret. Her hard expression told her not to bother her. “I’m going to go check on the others,” she said and left.

  Alone, if only for a moment, Margaret shut her eyes. Took a breath. And then let it out.