Yuri shot a quick glance over his shoulder and said, “Get it ready!” Then he pointed at Janson. “You, start CPR.”
Janson placed the heel of her right hand at the lower portion of Eli’s sternum. She rested her left hand on top, interlaced her fingers, locked her elbows, and began compressing his chest. There was a pop as one of Eli’s ribs cracked. Janson winced and said, “Sorry.”
“Just keep going,” Yuri said. He directed Ford to attach a pair of electrodes to the AED and place them on Eli’s chest.
Less than a second later, the miniature AED spoke in a computerized voice.
“Abnormal heart rhythm detected. Stand clear.” There was a brief pause, and the voice returned. “Shocking patient.”
Eli jerked, then exhaled softly. Yuri tapped a button on the AED, then leaned in to check Eli’s vitals. He found a pulse at the carotid artery, then checked for a pulse at the wrist.
“His blood pressure is low,” Yuri said, “but his heart is beating normally.” He opened Eli’s mouth and noted the deep bite-mark in his tongue. “I’ll need to watch him for a while.”
Ford rose to one knee and rested his forearm on his knee. He glanced at Kacen and said, “And you’ll have to stay with them in case any Katharos agents show up.” Then, turning to Janson he said, “I guess it’s just you and me. You still want to do this?”
Janson nodded. “We can’t leave Jarrod in there alone.”
Ford held his chest with one hand and pushed off his knee to stand. “Alright. Lead the way.”
Janson pulled the butt of her 7.62mm assault rifle into her shoulder. She glanced at Kacen and said, “We’ll leave the sniper rifles with you. There isn’t much ammunition left, but it’s better than nothing.”
Kacen covered his trachea and rasped, “We’ll be alright.”
Janson nodded at Ford, then set out at a jog. A shiver ran down her spine as she stepped onto the grass, but her armor protected her from electrocution. A minute later, she reached the bunker and put her back against the wall, just to the left of the door. She nodded at Ford, then swept inside, her rifle up.
Nothing could have prepared her for the grisly scene inside the bunker. The entire room was covered with a slick, crimson glaze and reeked of copper and excrement. Pieces of bodies wrapped in blood-drenched uniforms lay on top of mutilated torsos. The heads had all been removed and piled at the foot of the doorway. This wasn’t efficient, logic-driven killing. This was a massacre.
40
Jarrod stood in front of a steel barricade, studying the seams along the wall. Steel doors such as this, though incredibly effective at stopping mindless assaults, had a weakness: they obeyed commands.
He sniffed the air and quickly found the scent of insulated copper. He ran his hand along the wall, then made a fist and punched. His knuckles broke into a cavity that had been dug in to hold the wiring.
Sharpening the black armor around his thumb into a razor’s edge, he cut two of the wires free from the bundle and touched them together. An electric motor hummed from somewhere inside the wall, and the steel door retracted. Tossing the wires aside, he sprinted down the hallway and juked around the next corner. He didn’t know the layout of the structure, but he knew exactly where he was going. His nose was guiding him toward a familiar, intricate scent—the lubricants, nanomachines, and synthetic blood that coursed through cyborg veins.
Jarrod reached the top of a wide stone staircase and stopped. The hunt was over.
Four grotesque machines stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching him through black, artificial eyes. These weren’t like the other automatons he had faced; they were unfinished—naked, armorless, and leaking fluids from partially exposed hydraulic cylinders. Their bulging muscles were unbalanced, with the right limbs smaller than the left, and they stood with their shoulders slumped to one side.
Nevertheless, Jarrod expected them to be formidable, with incredible strength and near-instantaneous reflexes. He clenched his hands into fists and formed two-inch spikes on his knuckles. Glaring down at the grotesque machines, he said, “Bring it on.”
The tallest cyborg lurched forward, its long, bony hands outstretched. It charged the stairs with surprising agility, then ducked its head as it closed the gap.
Jarrod swung a powerful kick, and it missed the cyborg’s head by a hair’s width. The machine had ducked just in time, but Jarrod followed through, spinning all the way around and using his momentum to bring his elbow down on the cyborg’s skull. The bones cracked, and silvery brain matter erupted from the cavity.
The second automaton launched itself forward, hitting Jarrod with a blind tackle. It carried him across the hall and smashed him into the stone wall, then braced its feet and began pummeling him with knee-strikes and punches. Jarrod shifted his position left and right, dodging half of the blows. The cyborg’s fists struck the wall, and its hands crumpled inward.
The pilot of the bio-automaton hesitated for a fraction of a second as she realized the damage she was causing. Jarrod took advantage of the opening, rammed five clawed fingers into the cyborg’s neck, and clamped down on the spine. The cyborg convulsed, its limbs twisting inward like a dead spider.
Jarrod tossed the machine aside, then ducked as the next cyborg threw a powerful right cross. The punch missed high, and the cyborg struck the wall so hard that every bone in its hand and arm snapped simultaneously. The fourth cyborg reached into the fray and snatched Jarrod by his neck. It lifted him in the air, spun around, and slammed him against the floor. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, rattling his bones and sending lightning bolts of pain through his back.
As one cyborg held Jarrod down, the other aimed a powerful kick at his ribs. Jarrod absorbed the blow and grabbed the cyborg’s lower leg. Holding the ankle with one hand and the calf with the other, he pulled hard, tearing muscle from bone. The cyborg dropped to one knee, bringing its head within range. Jarrod lashed out, decapitating the cyborg with a blade-like forearm. As one machine buckled and collapsed, the other gripped Jarrod’s neck tighter, lifted him, and slammed him into the wall.
The armor around Jarrod’s neck creaked in the vice-like grip. He summoned more of the liquid armor onto his collarbone and formed two spikes, which dug into the cyborg’s wrists. Then he grasped both of the automaton’s arms, placed his feet against its barrel chest, and pushed with all his might.
The cyborg’s arms tore free, and it stumbled back. Jarrod rolled as he hit the floor, then jumped to his feet and launched a heel-strike at the front of the cyborg’s right knee. There was a sickening crunch, and the automaton’s leg caved inward. The machine landed on the floor, supporting its weight in its hands as if bowing. Jarrod grasped the cyborg’s head, braced his knee against its shoulder, and pulled. The spine pulled free from its ligaments and tendons, exposing the first four thoracic vertebrae before the automaton dropped to the floor.
Jarrod broke the spine off and held the severed head up to a surveillance camera, then said, “Who’s next?”
Dmitri’s stomach turned to ice. He glanced from the surveillance feed to the automaton pilots, then back again. “Ross, I need you in the hallway outside Research and Development.”
“I have to stay with Borya,” Ross said, his tone melancholy.
Jarrod shuffled down the stairs and paused next to an open door. He lifted his chin as if sniffing the air, then ducked inside.
Dmitri raised an eyebrow and mumbled “What is he doing?”
Jarrod crossed the room, eyeing the glass tubes that once held the bio-automatons. He followed a cluster of hoses away from the tubes to their source—a container mounted to the wall. He tore the lid off the container, exposing a metallic liquid inside. He held out his arm, drew the armor away from his hand, then plunged it into the container.
Dmitri pressed a button on the lectern to open a channel with the Throne Room. Before he could consult with Emily and Borya about what he was seeing, Borya’s voice echoed through the room.
“Stop h
im. By any means necessary.”
“I—yes, my friend. Of course.” Dmitri grabbed a tactical shotgun that had been leaning against the lectern and limped toward the exit. He paused at the door and glared at the technicians, who still sat at their desks. “You can die sitting down, or you can die with a weapon in your hands. It’s your choice.”
The Katharos agents exchanged worried looks, then reluctantly abandoned their posts. They each grabbed modern AK-47’s with laser sights mounted to the handguards, then followed Dmitri into the hallway. It took the group of unwilling soldiers nearly two minutes to reach the Research and Development wing, and they cowered behind Dmitri the entire way. Rather than scold the men and women behind him, Dmitri simply thumbed the safety on his shotgun and stepped into the bio-automaton room.
Jarrod lifted his arm out of the container, and the skin on his hand glistened gunmetal-gray. Then the pitch-black armor slid up and over his fingers. Without glancing in Dmitri’s direction, he spoke in perfect Russian, “You are not afraid.”
“I have lived a long and dangerous life,” Dmitri said. “I have seen the face of Death so many times, I feel we have become friends.”
A smile distorted Jarrod’s faceless visage. “And what does Death look like?”
“Like you.” Dmitri shrugged. “Maybe taller.”
Jarrod took a step back and turned to face Dmitri. “You aren’t like the others. They live with ambition and self-righteous conviction, but die as cowards.”
Dmitri held the shotgun with steady hands, the barrel aimed at Jarrod’s face. “I am not like the others, because I am nothing more than a soldier.”
Jarrod nodded at the weapon. “Why do you hesitate? Why not pull the trigger?”
Dmitri sighed and lowered the weapon. “If I thought it would work, I would have.” He paused for a moment, then added. “I’ve seen the things you’ve done, watched you from afar.”
Jarrod strode closer, then stopped a few feet from the tip of the shotgun. “And I don’t frighten you?”
“I am too old to fear pain or death. No, what I mean is…you have my respect.”
Jarrod crossed his arms. “Why?”
“You punish evil men, and you do it without hesitation. You hunt down people that have poisoned our world and bring them to true justice.”
“If you care about justice, why do you serve the cause of Katharos?”
Dmitri shook his head. “I stopped serving a cause long ago, as I waited outside of mud homes in Afghanistan while my superiors raped innocent women. I do not serve Katharos, but I would die for my friends.”
Jarrod nodded, then stared down at the floor. In a low voice, he said, “You are honest and brave. And you have my respect.” With a flash of movement, he knocked the shotgun aside and buried his fingers in Dmitri’s heart. The shotgun discharged once, then twice, and Jarrod leaned in close to Dmitri’s face. “So you will not have to watch your friends die.”
Dmitri’s expression slackened with resignation. He gave a tiny nod and dropped to his knees, then sat on his heels. He struggled to fill his lungs with air, then said, “Please…not Emily, she is…” He frowned and struggled to take another breath, but he couldn’t. His strength gave out. He fell onto his back and mouthed the final word.
Jarrod pulled the armor away from his face and locked Dmitri in a steely gaze. “If you know me, you know what I will do.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Dimitri. He closed his eyes, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Moments later, he was gone.
41
Borya let out an anguished cry and gripped his chest, as if it was he, and not his dear friend, that had suffered the killing blow.
Emily didn’t need to ask what had happened. She had seen it all play out on the security feed and stood transfixed by the images projected on her forearm. A soft whimper escaped her lips as she watched Jarrod vanish into thin air. Then, in the hallway, bright flashes of light contrasted with dark splashes of blood. One by one, the Operations Center technicians fell before her unstoppable creation.
Emily wiped a tear from her eye and sat beside Borya. “Do not worry, my love, he can’t hurt me, and I won’t let him touch you.”
Borya stared into the middle-distance. “So much damage has already been done. So many lives lost…”
Holding both of Borya’s hands in her own, Emily shot a glance at the one remaining bio-automaton. “Ross, open the Throne Room door. You’re our last hope.”
The burly, fully-armored cyborg nodded its massive head, then opened the wooden doors.
“I don’t mean to be rude…” a voice in the corner said, “but what the heck is going on?”
Emily ignored Eugene and rested her forehead against Borya’s.
“Excuse me?” Eugene said. He paused, then cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me? Can you hear me? Did you guys install another glass box while I was asleep? If so, you did a really good job cleaning it. I can’t even see it.” Another pause. “You’d think there’d be some glare or something to give it away, but it’s like it’s not even there. Unless…Wait, you’re not pretending that you can’t hear me, are you? Because that would be rude.”
“Will you shut up!” Emily snapped.
“You can hear me. That’s good, because I have, like, a thousand questions.”
“Silence!” It was Borya that spoke this time.
Eugene was about to remark on Borya’s haggard appearance, but he saw the wide-eyed expression on the old man’s face and followed his gaze across the room.
Standing in the doorway, a few paces away from the cyborg with his hands in the air, was Jarrod Hawkins.
“Holy crap!” Eugene said, rocking against his restraints. “Am I glad to see you!”
In an apparent gesture of contrition, Jarrod withdrew the black armor from his face and hands. The skin beneath differed by only a few shades—a dark gray, like unpolished silver. He stared up at the cyborg and said, “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Borya spoke through every speaker in the Palace, so his voice echoed through the corridors. “Kill him.”
The bio-automaton surged forward like an attack dog. It reached out with a massive, armor-clad hand, then stumbled backward as Jarrod leapt forward and gripped its head. The cyborg pulled back its shoulders and, tucking its elbows into its sides, launched a battering-ram punch into Jarrod’s chest. Then it froze. Its hands dropped, hanging limp by its waist, and it got down on both knees.
“What are you doing?” Emily shouted. “Fight back!”
The cyborg trembled, though Jarrod had softened his grip. His hands pawed at the back of the cyborg’s head and unclasped its helmet. He tossed it aside and placed his left palm on the automaton’s forehead.
“How…” Emily murmured. “How is he doing this?”
Borya didn’t speak. His eyes twitched, and he seemed to be in pain.
“Borya? What’s happening?”
“He’s…inside,” Borya grunted.
A deep groan issued from the far end of the room. Emily’s eyes widened; the sound was coming from the automaton. The automaton, which had not been designed to feel pain, and ostensibly couldn’t speak, was weeping.
Jarrod stared at her with hate-filled eyes and placed his other palm on the cyborg’s head. The automaton raised its voice to a shuddering cry, then began to scream. The sound grew deeper and louder until it shook the room.
Emily covered her ears and shouted at Borya. “Make it stop!”
Beads of sweat had formed on Borya’s face. He pinched his eyes shut, and the screaming ceased. The cyborg’s knees gave out, and it collapsed into a heap.
Emily wiped the sweat off her brow and stared into Borya’s eyes. “What was that?”
“A taste of what is to come,” Jarrod said. He stepped around the cyborg’s body and took wide steps along the red carpet. “For both of you.”
Emily stepped in front of Borya and spread her arms. “You can’t hurt me,” she said. “I made sure of that from th
e beginning.”
Jarrod stopped at the base of the platform and grinned. “The machine inside my head can’t hurt you,” he said. “But I’ve gotten very good at controlling machines. Isn’t that right, Borya?” He placed a foot on the first stair.
“No,” Borya moaned. “Stay back.”
A sick remembrance flashed through Emily’s mind, and she suddenly felt completely helpless. “You can’t hurt me,” she repeated, as if the words had power of their own.
Jarrod took another step, then another. He loomed over Emily, his pewter face inches away from hers. “You would be dead already, if not for her.” He pointed at Emily’s stomach. “Now, get out of my way.”
Emily’s knees trembled. “I…I…”
Jarrod placed his hands on her arms and gently lifted her up. He carried her to the corner of the room and set her down next to Eugene. “Don’t move.”
As he walked back to the platform, Borya’s face twisted with fear.
“Get away from me!” the leader of Katharos shrieked.
“You know what I want,” Jarrod growled. “Do it, or I’ll show you what real pain is.”
Borya glanced nervously around the room, as if seeking escape. When Jarrod reached out with an open palm, Borya stammered, “S-s-stop. I’ll do it.”
Entering the Palace without proper equipment had been nearly impossible. Janson and Ford had been forced to climb down the elevator shaft using a maintenance ladder, then pick their way around using claw holes Jarrod had left behind. Once they reached the interior corridors, they’d followed Jarrod’s trail through ventilation shafts and partially smashed doors. When they finally reached the bottom level of the facility, they were relieved to find the steel barricades wide open.
Janson led the way through a stone hallway, then shuffled down a long set of stairs. When she reached the bottom, she raised her weapon and shouted, “Get on the floor! Hands out in front of you!”
Two men and one woman wearing lab coats held their hands above their heads. Their faces were streaked with tears, and the woman said, “Please. We’re just trying to h-help.”
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