False Memory by Dan Krokos

to Tycast?” I ask both of them.
    “Everyone was,” they say together.
    Peter scans the trees behind me. “We don’t know if anyone is dead. Maybe whoever did this burned the place and took off.”
    I shake my head. “We talked to Tycast this morning . Why would they do that?”
    “Let’s be clear on they ,” Noah says.
    “Whomever you heard Tycast talking to,” I say. “Obviously she’s not alone.”
    “Nothing is obvious,” Noah says. “He could’ve done this on his own, or helped them.”
    I want to fire back with something, but he’s right. We can’t be sure of anything.
    The fire is lower now, just an orange glow reflecting off the dirt walls. The ground beneath my feet is warm through my boots. I crouch down and press my palm on the grass.
    When I look up, Peter stands over me. “Take off your boot,” he says. His eyes are blurry with tears, but maybe it’s from the billowing smoke.
    “Why?”
    He kneels. Grabs my laces and tugs.
    “What’s wrong?” I say.
    “You’re right about what happened here,” he says. “We’re not safe. And we won’t be until no one can track us.”
    Noah is next to him. “What are you doing?”
    “Removing her tracker.”
    “What tracker?”
    Peter takes my sock off and finds the seam in my armor with his thumb. He splits it along the top of my foot and rolls it halfway up my shin, holding my foot in his dry hand. My toes are painted a burnt red color, kind of like my hair. I don’t remember painting them; it doesn’t seem like something I would care to do. My bare foot in his hand makes me feel a little exposed, and I don’t know why.
    Then Peter pulls out a knife.
    I see something in his eyes. Pain. But not for our burning home. Because he’s about to hurt me?
    I bite my lip.
    “This won’t feel good,” he says.
    Noah reaches down and grabs the wrist holding the knife, but Peter elbows him in the chest. “Back off,” he says. “I’m saving our lives.” To me, he says, “This is where I put the tracker. I thought I was only one who could use it, but I don’t know if that’s true now.”
    I nod. The knife goes in just behind my ankle. I bite my lip harder to keep from screaming. He twists the blade and a little red pill shoots out and falls into the grass. I taste blood and blink my vision clear.
    “You should be able to stand,” Peter says.
    Olive comes back carrying four long sticks in her arms. Slim combat staffs. I smell a gym mat, hear the thwack of a staff hitting bare skin. Another phantom, this time without images. I shake my head to clear the sensations.
    “No guns?” Noah says. Peter disposed of the two Walthers in a storm drain before leaving Indiana. He didn’t want to risk getting pulled over with them. After some grumbling, Noah and Olive did the same.
    Olive shakes her head. She’s smeared dirt across her cheeks and brow. With her dark hair and black suit, she blends in with the shadowed tree trunks perfectly. I feel like a road flare in comparison, with my red hair and pale skin.
    Peter wipes the knife on his shirt, smearing my blood. “Who’s next?” he says. He rolls the armor down my leg and pushes the seam together. The pain fades a moment later as the armor acts like a bandage over the wound.
    I put my sock and boot on while Peter removes trackers from Noah and Olive. Noah calls him an asshole for keeping tabs without his knowledge, but Olive just shrugs like it all makes sense. I get why he did it—we wouldn’t be here together if he hadn’t—but I’m not sure I like that he didn’t ask. Still, from what little I know about him, it seems like the idea was for the right reasons, not to spy on us. Our situation kind of proves that.
    I practice walking around. My ankle is tender but feels like it’s already healing, if that’s possible. The fire from the H9 has died down even more. It’s just a smoking pit in the middle of the clearing, and none of us look at it. We know we shouldn’t stick around, but I