by Tarah Benner
Then the rumble travels up the building’s frame and transfers to my tired body. My knees tremble as I hold on for dear life, and then I’m smashed into the nearest wall.
It all happens so fast I don’t have time to react. My tired legs crumple, and I grab on to the railing.
Pivoting my body to face the top floor, I continue my slow painstaking climb.
The stairs shake beneath my feet. The whole earth seems to have indigestion. I’m scaling the spine of an angry giant, but I don’t stop moving until I reach the next landing.
I grope blearily for the next flight of stairs, but instead I almost collide with a door. It’s the roof access. I’ve reached the top. But I don’t have time to celebrate.
A deafening roar of bending metal fills my ears, and I am consumed by a cloud of dust. The emergency lights above me flicker, and I sink down on the ground to make myself small.
I draw in my legs and cover my head, willing the shaking to stop. I tuck my face into my shirt and breathe in my sweat, which at least tells me I’m still alive.
Dust and debris rain over my head, and the building groans as if it’s coming apart. I hug my knees tighter and try to be a rock — a rock that can withstand the crashing waves.
I don’t know what happened to Teegan. I should have met her on the way. If she’s not here, it means she didn’t make it. She must have been ambushed by bots.
But as I sit there, mired by fear, one thought surfaces above all others: Jonah.
His name rises above everything else on my mind, and I get a fresh jolt of panic when I realize he’s not here.
Coughing on the endless spew of dust, I squint through the murky darkness. The building has stopped ripping itself apart, but the rumbling has been replaced by an odd ringing in my ears.
My skin peels apart with a sweaty wet smack as I uncurl myself from my folded position.
I can’t see more than a foot in front of me. My legs feel like jelly. I wipe the dust from my eyes, but there is just dust and . . . more dust.
I feel along the wall for the railing, but I must not be anywhere near it. The floor disappears beneath my feet, and I stumble onto the first step.
I cough again and look around, wanting to call Jonah’s name. I can’t call to him — can’t open my mouth. The dust has formed an impermeable fog.
It takes a lifetime to reach the next landing. Each step feels like a gamble, and each movement threatens to take my feet out from under me.
Finally, I reach the next landing and grab hold of the railing. I feel my way down another flight of stairs, but the farther I go, the more my dread mounts.
Jonah should have been here by now. I don’t know how long I sat on that landing, but he should have had time to find me.
Unless he lied, says a voice in my head. Unless there never was any time.
The thought hits me with such a violent ring of truth that I have to grip the railing to keep from falling. My legs are suddenly very weak, and the realization leaves me reeling.
Jonah was never going to meet me in the stairwell. He only told me that so that I would obey. He wanted me in the safest place possible, but he never had any intention of joining.
Hot, angry tears burn the back of my throat. All the muscles in my chest contract, making it impossible to breathe.
If Jonah was anywhere except the stairwell, it seems unlikely he could have survived. Jonah the hero — the stubborn idiot. Why did he have to go?
The sobs surprise me when they burst from my chest, shaking a violent path through my throat. My whole body trembles as they burst out of me, and I feel my tired legs give out.
Sinking down onto a step, I drop my head in my hands. Dust falls all around as I collapse in on myself, sobbing and choking for air. I cry out in a sound that isn’t even human, but the dust eats up my scream.
As I sit there wailing, my body surrenders. My arms ache. My legs are weak. I couldn’t fight a bot if I had to.
But then I open my eyes and see a flicker of light reaching toward me through the darkness. Tiny particles of dust shimmer in the air, and I squint at the sudden brightness.
Suddenly fearful, I cast around for my weapon. All I have is the stupid handgun. I feel around with both hands on the ground, finally locating a piece of rebar.
Rising to my feet, all my tears dry up, and I’m gripped by a suicidal surge of bravery. I’m drunk on exhaustion and whatever is left. I’m ready to fight to the death.
The pale white light grows stronger and stronger, and I cough as the intruder disturbs the dust. A dark figure looms in the shimmering fog, and a moment later, I’m blinded by light.
“Maggie?”
The sound of that voice makes me weak all over. I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible. All the fight drains out of me at once.
I don’t think. I don’t call back. I don’t even remember to use the steps.
I throw myself straight into Jonah’s arms and hit his chest so hard that it knocks him breathless.
“I thought you were dead!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck.
I might be having a breakdown.
In that moment, I don’t care that he can tell I’ve been crying. I don’t care that I lost my weapon. Jonah can rip me a new one if he likes. Being yelled at sounds like a glorious vacation.
I squeeze him harder to confirm he’s alive, and Jonah squeezes me back.
I don’t know how long we stand there entangled — only that the dust begins to settle.
Soon I realize that I’m bear-hugging Jonah and things are getting weird. I clear my throat and pull away, shaking my head in disbelief.
“How did you —?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I can’t read his expression. I’m still squinting into the bright light from his Optix.
But then he turns back around and takes me gently by the hand. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Before Mordecai figures out we’re alive.”
31
Jonah
As soon as I find Maggie, I take her by the hand and lead her down through the building. It’s pitch black in the emergency stairwell, and a thick fog of white dust is still quivering in the air.
I hear the wail of ambulances and firetrucks before we even reach the ground. I’m not sure what we’re going to find. I just hope we can make it out.
When we reach the last landing, I throw the door wide open. We’re instantly engulfed in a cloud of fresh dust, and I bring my shirt up over my face.
Our path is blocked by a wall of debris. A beam has collapsed over the entryway, shattering the dark tile and covering the floor with a bone-white powder. I stick out my leg and kick aside a chunk of material — mostly broken ceiling tiles and dented duct work.
The light from my Optix pokes through the rubble and disappears into a dense wall of material. There’s a space beneath a fallen beam — a triangle of safety among the dense piles of wreckage. None of it looks stable, and all is immersed in a thick soup of dust.
“Look out for exposed wires,” I say to Maggie, attempting to find a path through the rubble. The layers of debris are so dense that they’re blocking out the sun. Only the position of the stairwell lets me know I’m headed toward the street.
Maggie follows close behind, and our journey is painstakingly slow. At times we’re forced to climb seven or eight feet, only to find our path blocked by a beam or a filing cabinet that broke through the ceiling. Other times we find our way to a hole that’s just big enough to crawl through. We move blindly toward the parking lot, unsure if we’ll hit a dead end.
At one point, I’m flat on my stomach when my fingers reach out and touch solid concrete. I can hear Maggie squirming behind me, and when I tell her to go back, she breaks down in tears.
That almost does me in. I’m surrounded by darkness with only my Optix to guide me. Several tons of broken concrete are pressing down overhead, and even though I’m in the middle of Silicon Valley, I might as well be trapped in Siberia.
&nb
sp; I swerve my hips to move backward through the tunnel, and my breaths become shallow and uneven. My chest tightens around my heart, and I feel pressure on my back.
Suddenly the space seems much too small, and I can’t move my elbows to push my body back through. There’s a wall of rock less than a foot from my face and enough material above to crush me in an instant.
In that moment, I don’t know if we’re going to make it out alive. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. But Maggie’s quiet sniffles bring me back down, and I sense her moving through the tunnel behind me.
I count ten breaths and focus on reality. I’m not alone. I’m not in Siberia. I’m stuck in one of the most photographed buildings in America. There’s a parking lot a hundred yards in front of my face and a coffee shop a quarter mile east.
That brings my heart rate back to normal. I’m able to push myself through the hole, and when I turn around, Maggie is crouched beside a crumpled desk chair.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “We just need to find another way through.”
Maggie gives me a brave nod, and those blue-green eyes fill me with resolve.
We have to get out. This building won’t make me a liar. I will find us another way, and Maggie and I will get out if I have to move every piece of concrete by hand.
I straighten up and examine our surroundings. We’re standing in a tiny cathedral formed by fallen beams, broken office furniture, and more construction debris than I’ve ever seen. Chunks of concrete mix with electrical wires and expensive slate tile, and little pink tufts of insulation stick out like cotton candy.
Then I see a blinking light — so subtle that I’d almost missed it. I squint into the darkness and see that it’s emanating from a space between two beams.
The space is blocked by a crushed hunk of plastic that looks like a server, but with Maggie’s help we manage to shift it and create a corridor wide enough to squeeze through.
I look down, still following the light, and see an Optix ring half buried in the dirt. The light illuminates a familiar shape: a fingernail painted a pale shell pink.
I study the shape for several seconds before a familiar chill shoots down my spine. The fingernail is attached to a human hand — light-brown skin, orange hemp bracelet.
I reach behind me and give Maggie’s hand a squeeze.
“Don’t look down,” I say.
Maggie doesn’t argue.
The body belongs to Zuni Monroe. She didn’t follow my directions.
She made a break for the exit. It’s likely she was killed by bots. Otherwise she might have been crushed under a five-story building. I can’t think about that now.
We continue to push forward until we reach a section of the corridor that’s completely impassable. A rockslide of concrete is piled up before me, and I see what looks like a human arm sticking out of the pile.
A burst of nausea rips up my throat, but I force myself to bend down and touch it.
The skin is cold — silicone smooth. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
Regardless of the consequences, we achieved our goal. We lured dozens of bots into the building and exterminated them like rats. I would have preferred to tear them apart one by one, but at least they’re damaged beyond repair.
Suddenly, I hear a rumble echo through the debris. I stop moving and squeeze Maggie’s hand, listening intently for the sound of voices. They echo toward us once again, bending around the debris.
I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, and then the voices fall silent. I shout again, screaming for help, and the voices return the call.
I half cover my Optix light and turn to Maggie. Her face is pale and covered in dust. I can read the exhaustion in her eyes, but the voices seem to light her up.
Filled with a manic sense of urgency, I bend down to heave a chunk of concrete off the pile. I don’t know what will happen once the rubble is cleared, but with rescue workers on the other side, I can’t wait to find out.
Maggie joins me in trying to clear a path, but it’s slow, demoralizing work. The pile seems to grow taller every second, but then a rock shifts, and a burst of light breaks through.
“Hey . . . Hey!”
I squint through the blinding sunlight and see the neon glow of a helmet. The rescue worker has opened a window in the rubble, and fresh air is pouring in from the other side.
I help widen the tunnel just enough for us to fit and help Maggie climb out of the wreckage. The man in the helmet holds out a hand, and I clamber up the rubble wall.
The second the fresh air hits my lungs, I feel as though I’ve been slowly starving. I gulp it in and stumble down the heap of rubble, drunk on oxygen and blinking in the sun.
Flashing red and blue lights disturb my senses, and I nearly fall into another hole. Dust and debris are scattered everywhere. The parking lot looks like a war zone.
Maggie is being ushered away, led toward an ambulance with blinking red lights. Someone places a foil blanket over her shoulders, and she looks numb and dazed as they ask her questions.
Another first responder is trying to get my attention. I can see his dusty face moving in and out of focus.
But I just push past him and head straight for Maggie. She looks so small, being swallowed by that blanket. Her hair and face are covered in dust, and she’s breathing into a mask with a trailing plastic tube.
“I have to go,” I yell over the din. More police and firetrucks are rushing down the street.
“What?” Maggie croaks.
Her eyes, glazed with shock, widen in panic, and I feel an automatic kick of remorse. I can’t leave her here. It isn’t safe. But Maggie has been through enough.
“I have to find Mordecai,” I yell over the noise. “We need to finish this.”
For a second, Maggie just stares. It seems as though my words take a long time to travel from my mouth to her brain, but when she understands, she shakes her head frantically.
I don’t want to fight her on this. I don’t want to fight after we both almost died, but I won’t be able to rest as long as he’s alive.
“You know where he is?” she asks, lowering the mask.
“No,” I admit. “But there’s one place we haven’t checked — somewhere he might go.”
“BlumBot?”
I nod. It’s a long shot — almost too obvious. But the building is empty after the forced evacuation. The police patrol has probably been called away to investigate the explosion, making BlumBot headquarters the perfect retreat.
“It’s just a guess,” I say. “But I need to go now — before he finds out that we survived.”
“I’m coming with you,” she says suddenly.
I grit my teeth. Deep down I know it isn’t smart, but there’s an ache of determination in her voice that tells me there’s no point in arguing.
I glance around. Police cruisers are skidding to a halt all around the block. First responders are crawling over the wreckage like ants on an anthill. The destruction is unbelievable. Someone will have to answer for this.
An odd sense of calm washes over me as I watch the police surround the building. My fingerprints are all over those explosives. There’s a chain of evidence stacked against me.
It will take a lot to explain why I blew up that building, and it will be hard to prove I didn’t kill Zuni Monroe. I don’t even know if the other CEOs made it, but they will tell police I planned to blow up Maverick.
I’m no good to anyone if I’m in jail. At the very least, they’ll haul us in for questioning, which would be a gigantic waste of time. We’ll be trapped in some California precinct while Mordecai slithers away.
“Come on,” I say finally, fighting my tug of reluctance. “Let’s find Mordecai and finish this.”
32
Jonah
It’s incredible the sounds a building makes when all the humans are gone. Any structure lives and breathes just like an animal, but it never really goes to sleep.
I can hear the air conditioner humming overhead. It’s
loud and violent as it streams through the metal tubes strung along the ceiling. The cold air shakes the ducts and rattles the building — all to cool the empty offices.
The headquarters of BlumBot International have a much different feel from Vault or Maverick. The lobby floor is covered in shiny white tile, and the walls are a light sky blue.
There’s a low couch, a woven rug, and a bunch of small palms to the left of the entrance. A coffee bar spans one side of the lobby, and there are black-and-white photographs on the walls.
We climb the glass staircase up to the second floor, which looks as though it’s been ransacked. Papers are scattered all over the place, and the employees’ desktops are missing. A tropical plant is lying on its side, spilling dirt all over the carpet.
Unlike Vault, where there was a conspicuous lack of any personal touches, the employees at BlumBot have covered their desks with framed pictures of toddlers and motivational calendars. Mugs are sitting on the desks still full of coffee. They must have evacuated in a hurry.
A water pump kicks on somewhere on the floor as we walk around the railing. I tighten my grip on Jared’s bot-frying device as we climb to the third floor. I keep expecting to find myself staring at one of the bots, but the place appears deserted.
The third floor is lined with tall windows shaded by blinds. I can see police cruisers crawling the streets — even a Humvee rolling down the block. The city is still on high alert, investigating the explosion.
Suddenly, Maggie stops in her tracks. I raise the stunner, but there’s no one there.
She’s staring at a closed door with a silver placard mounted to the side. It’s engraved with neat block letters carved in a skinny modern type: “M. Blum.”
My stomach tightens. This is it — the office where Mordecai plotted against his own sister, formulating a plan for attacks that would kill hundreds of innocent people.
I step forward to shield Maggie with my body, handing over Jared’s stunner as I raise my pistol. The bots are probably the bigger threat, but I want the satisfaction of killing Mordecai myself.