His face paled. “Where do we go?”
She nodded with her head, “That open hanger.”
As they walked, Hunter watched the drone. It hovered in place, turning only to follow them. She looked around, not liking the feeling of this, and saw something in the distance that moved like a swarm of gnats. She peered at it and felt her scalp prickle. Shoving Pasqual, she said, “Run!”
Her eyesight was good enough to see them as they approached: a flock of sparrow-sized drones. As they flew closer, Hunter made out something under their bodies: small tubes like soda straws, extending downward at a slight angle.
Pasqual was slow. She pushed him with her arm, forcing him faster as the drones closed. Hunter heard the paramedic yell, “Hey, watch out!” at her as he pointed at the swarm. He also had his phone out, filming them. The copter pilot saw what was happening and picked up a short piece of chain, flinging it underhanded at the drones so the chain spun like a twirler’s baton.
The drones parted and then closed together in a graceful flock movement that Hunter had seen blackbirds and starlings do when evading small hawks over a field.
Hunter clenched her teeth at how close the drones were, and she could clearly see them. Maybe fifty, flying as if a single mind directed them.
Pasqual wheezed, “I can’t…”
Hunter pushed him with both hands low on his back, like pushing a stalled car, and he continued forward.
She glanced again and saw the swarm thirty feet behind them, clustering closer together and coming at them like a small cloud.
Giving one final push, she propelled Pasqual into the hanger and grabbed the large sliding hanger door to slide it shut. She saw drones through the closing slit, almost close enough to swat out of the air with her hand right before it closed.
She expected to hear their impact on the metal door, but there was nothing. Pasqual fell to the floor, gasping and staring at the ceiling.
After a moment, she opened the door. They were gone. People approached and peppered her with questions: “What were those things?” “Are we under attack?” “Who are you?”
She held her hand up for silence, “All your questions will be answered later. Sheriff Montoya will hold a press conference about it.”
“When?” Someone said.
“When he tells you. He’s the Sheriff, not me.”
That ticked off a few people, but the others were okay with it.
As everyone left, the paramedic walked to her, “What’s your name and email address? I caught those things on video, thought you might want it for something.”
She told him, adding, “Thanks.” She added, “Which way did those things go?”
He pointed toward the border, “Somewhere that way. They’re so small, after a while I couldn’t see them anymore.”
Hunter called Raymond and filled him in, then asked if he could come pick them up. He said sure, his life revolved around getting Hunter out of trouble. Hunter smiled and hung up.
While they waited, Hunter sat with Pasqual, who still looked winded. She said, “Have you been sick?”
Pasqual said, “I have cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. It is in my lungs, Stage Three, small cell carci
noma.”
“What’s your prognosis?”
“Not good.”
She didn’t pry any further.
They sat in silence for several minutes, then Pasqual said, “You don’t expect to get it; cancer, I mean.”