Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3

by A W Wang

  A woman from the other team lies contorted on the floor. Blood drips from a gash in her temple, forming a viscous puddle around her hair. The rest of the gray hallway is empty.

  More fighting erupts, the sounds reverberating through the corridors as if both near and far.

  Since there’s no cover, standing still isn’t an option. I edge past the body and into the next intersection, feeling conspicuous about the lack of head protection.

  Two turns later, I enter a windowless corridor and pause. Despite the dry environment, I wipe sweat from my brow. The shadows ahead remind me of the fingers of Death, which are still waiting beyond the edge of my vision.

  My hand trembles, and I grind my teeth. I’ve been wounded so many times, danger shouldn’t matter anymore.

  After a deep breath, I rush through the darkened space until I reach a sunlit window.

  Nothing to it.

  At the next corner, I stop and poke my head out.

  A bullet nips the wall behind me.

  I sink to a knee and return fire.

  The red-vested form disappears into a shadowy intersection.

  I charge, firing more shots until I arrive at the cross corridor.

  The three other directions are empty.

  I slap in a fresh magazine and edge forward, annoyed with my lack of productivity.

  A minute later, a staircase comes into view.

  Unsure of what else to do, I loop down the two flights of steps to the lower level.

  The landing leads into a windowless room lit by the glow of an overhead light sealed in an opaque bubble. Hallways leave in three directions.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to decide which way is best.

  An elevator pings down the left passage. A second later, gunfire echoes in long bursts as the doors open.

  I rush toward the fight. When I arrive, panting, the black metal doors are closed with the elevator moving to the fourth and highest floor. A “B” under the push button and only one arrow pointing upward indicate I’m in the basement. Other than those details, only a few chips in the concrete show there was any struggle at all.

  Frustrated by once again being too late for the action, I move from the obvious place to get ambushed and further into the dim surroundings.

  After wasting another few minutes chasing the sounds of combat, I stop, choosing to let the fight come to me.

  “It might come in the worst way possible,” internal me says.

  “Well, at least I haven’t been hit yet.”

  “What does that even mean? And by the way, the scenario isn’t over. There’s still going to be lots of opportunities to get shot or stabbed or whatever other ways someone with all those threads can imagine killing you.”

  I scowl at internal me before I park myself at the corner intersection of two short hallways and wait.

  A fair amount of time and shooting later, I sit undisturbed, both sweaty and nervous.

  “Well, that didn’t work so well.”

  Not bothering to answer the figment of my imagination, I get up and march down a passage.

  More shots, hollowed from reverberating down long walls of cinder blocks, roll by.

  I seize the opportunity and advance.

  Someone hits me from the side and jams my SBR upward. Before I can pull out another weapon, a pistol points at my head.

  My momentary panic subsides when I spy a familiar face past the barrel of the gun.

  I smile at the woman who dragged me to safety in my first scenario. “Hi, Cat. It’s great to see you again.”

  As recognition bleeds into her large brown eyes, she snorts. “It’s amazing you’re still alive, Mr. Bright Smile.”

  Twenty-Four

  After Cat lowers the gun, I say, “We’re on the same team. I’m Vic.”

  “I didn’t recognize you in the ready room because you had your hands over your face. What’s up with that?”

  “Just getting ready for the scenario,” I say as a rationalization.

  “That’s more like a lie.”

  Unlike internal me, Cat doesn’t dispute the semantics of the statement and says, “Just make sure you don’t get me killed.”

  I frown.

  So much for joyful reunions.

  As Cat drags me down a long hallway, internal me offers, “In fairness, you didn’t really help during that scenario, and you did almost shoot that seven sigma.”

  “Could you be a little less honest sometimes?”

  “You’re being a little thin-skinned.”

  “Thin-skinned? You’re in my freaking head!”

  Mercifully, the last thought erupts loudly enough to end the conversation.

  At the entryway to the boiler room, Cat raps on one of the steel doors. “It’s Cat. I found a stray.”

  The left one opens with a metallic creak, and two soldiers holding SBRs peer through the crack.

  I blink from a rush of heat rolling past my face.

  Cat pushes me past the pair and into a hot, dirt-streaked room. Although a single naked bulb glows from the ceiling, most of the large space is lit by firelight leaking from two metal-cased furnaces.

  I breathe easier when I count five others leaning against or sitting on the rusty pipes wandering along the walls and into the high ceiling. With the two by the door, our total force size is nine.

  Cat says, “Okay, while you’ve been lollygagging—”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “But you haven’t accomplished anything,” internal me adds.

  “Fine,” Cat replies, “while you’ve been trying, we’ve been winning this thing.”

  “I’m here to help, and I’m willing to get killed doing it.”

  Her eyes soften at the earnest comment. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  “Hopefully…”

  She pulls me in front of the orange slats of a furnace grate and points to a charcoal map sketched on the floor.

  “This building is about forty meters wide by sixty long. Three stories and this basement. The top and second floors are mostly open, while the basement and ground floor are a rat’s nest of corridors. We control the ground floor and have kill teams at ambush points.” She kneels and taps her finger on the map. “Here and in these two places.”

  Her pretty brown eyes glance up. “We’ve got the enemy split with only a few down here that we can pretty quickly eliminate, and then we’ll march upstairs and finish off the rest. Got it?”

  I smile, suppressing jealousy from her command of the scenario.

  She looks to the doorway. “Hey, Sandy, how many have we eliminated?”

  The guard with sandy hair answers, “Last count was twenty-eight.”

  Cat turns back to me. “Then given the fog of war, it’s closer to twenty that we’ve killed, while taking ten casualties.”

  “I’m not dead either,” I say proudly.

  “Fine. Nine. So, with better than a three to two advantage, we only need to press the attack and chip away at their numbers. And not do anything rash or stupid. Can you handle that?”

  I nod, angry at myself for having any reaction to the rhetorical and sarcastic question.

  “After we clear out the basement, we assemble on the first floor and push them up to where there isn’t much cover and take care of the rest. Make sense?”

  This time, I don’t react and, more annoyed than anything, follow Cat to the exit with the others.

  “We split into three teams of three,” Cat says, holding up three fingers and flicking them three times. “One goes right, one goes center, and one goes left. We’re the only ones from our side on this floor, so kill everything between here and the stairwell. Got it?”

  After everyone nods, Sandy, Cat, and I form one team and go right, while the remaining six go off in the other two directions.

  The plan works surprisingly well. The task takes time, but we root out the last four enemies from the basement and arrive via the different hallways into the room with the staircase. From ther
e, we head to the elevator and disable it by jamming a rifle between its doors.

  We climb to the ground floor, where the rest of our side prepares to finish the battle.

  The next level is easily taken with only a few ragged volleys being fired before our outnumbered enemies retreat to the final floor.

  Although startled by the ease of the advance, I know the last fight will be brutal. Wanting to contribute, I volunteer to lead one of the four assault teams forming for the finale.

  Instead, Cat appoints the leaders by the highest scores, although somehow I wind up on her team.

  “Safest place to be. I like her.”

  Not agreeing with either assessment and annoyed by Cat’s demeaning behavior, I march with her and five others up a stairwell, shielding my eyes from sunlight streaming through a tall column of windows.

  When the stairs loop at the halfway point, Cat stops. “Remember,” she says, “it’s mostly open, but there are a couple of side offices and columns. Stay alert and keep up a good rate of fire. Coming from four directions, we should be able to wear them down.”

  While the others nod, I smile at the challenge.

  With guns ready, we tread up the remaining stairs. When I peer over the last step, shots ricochet.

  I duck while Cat crouches next to me, cursing.

  A second volley peppers the stacked windows behind us. While a few cracks appear in the glass, I suspect they are unbreakable, like the concrete walls.

  Sounds of fighting—gunshots, ricochets, sharp impacts, wet thuds, and of course, screams of the wounded—rise from the other entrances.

  The enemy isn’t stupid. Their fire comes from a wide arc into the tight openings of the staircases, while our replies are haphazardly aimed and spread over the floor.

  I join Cat and Sandy, firing over the lip of the staircase, hoping to hit something of value.

  After my SBR empties, I slide down to reload. Another person jumps into my place.

  There’s a wet splat, and blood showers over the area. Sandy tumbles down the stairs, holding a bloody hand, cursing with each bump until his body rolls against a window.

  “Hold here,” Cat yells before heading to help him.

  The firing slows across the floor as the rest of my group retreats from the exposed position. The situation is turning into a stalemate.

  Sick of being scared by Death and belittled by Cat, I turn to the three people next to me. “Give me suppressing fire, and I’ll get to the nearest column.”

  After they nod, I grit my teeth and grip my weapon tighter. “Now.” I suck down air as the three others poke their heads up and unload with everything they have, emptying their magazines in seconds.

  I jump up and charge, feeling a little too much like Saya.

  From the stairwell, Cat shouts, “No!”

  Too late to stop.

  A bullet whizzes past my head, reminding me of the limits of my body armor, while another burst ricochets over the floor, splattering into whatever’s behind me.

  Pistol rounds pound my vest with the force of a baseball bat. While a couple of ribs get bruised, I twist and flop behind a support column, shooting at anything that moves.

  When my group reloads and fires, I lean my head out and empty the SBR, clipping some exposed legs and arms. Howls of pain come as I jerk back behind cover.

  Return fire peppers the column, and concrete chips rocket past my face.

  I slam another magazine into the gun, coughing from the dust and grimacing from my injuries.

  Across the space, the shooting intensifies, and crimson splatters add to the sprays of concrete exploding everywhere.

  I roll to the side, sighting the nearest enemy, and unload.

  Mists of red spray as lead plows through his vest and neck. He falls, fountaining blood.

  Against the backdrop of chaos, red-vested enemies center their attention on me. A wave of bullets smacks everything as I twist into cover, struggling to reload the SBR.

  Footsteps thud as an enemy charges, his rounds zipping close to my boots.

  “Pistol!”

  I drop everything and jerk out the pistol, firing across his path. Gore erupts from his unarmored thighs, and I land a headshot as he tumbles to the floor.

  A higher-velocity bullet from an SBR punches through my vest, knocking me down. The pistol flops from my hand.

  I fumble for another weapon, coughing blood.

  From the side, a woman leaps and lands over me, stabbing with a long knife.

  I block with both hands, but the force behind the blow carries the blade downward, and the point sinks through my vest, digging into my shoulder.

  Grunting from the familiar pain, I shove back and stop any further damage. But weakening from the loss of blood and fluid filling my lungs, this is a battle I’m destined to lose.

  Her free hand reaches to her side, and an instant later, she raises the short knife in triumph.

  I feebly raise an arm.

  The woman’s head explodes into gore, and her body tumbles to the side.

  Cat rushes past me, firing.

  I wipe blood from my eyes. Then I lie back as the fuzzy fingers of Death appear around my vision.

  The instant the pistol ran out, I should have pulled a knife.

  “I leave you alone for a second and this happens,” Cat says, kneeling next to me. “You know we were going to win by attrition, right?”

  When I try to snort, only blood spills from my nose.

  I guess I’m deficient at strategy too.

  Even though Death’s clutches blacken my view, I don’t panic.

  This isn’t my time.

  “Can you help me get better?” I ask through hoarse breaths.

  “What? I didn’t hear you,” she says, leaning closer.

  My breathing slows, and my eyelids flutter.

  A smack hits my cheek.

  My eyes pop open as I shake my head from disorientation.

  Cat’s pretty face fills the center of my fading vision. “Hey, don’t fall asleep. You don’t want to die now.”

  I cough out a bloody sigh and roll my eyes, more from exasperation than pain.

  As Cat raises her hand and slaps me again, internal me says, “I really like her.”

  Although the scenario ends quickly, enough time elapses for Cat to slap my face two more times before the golden sparkles arrive and save me from her saving me.

  Twenty-Five

  As afternoon surrenders to evening, I hurry past the cafeteria and through orange sunbeams poking from the western skyline. I shout to a distant figure, “Cat, wait. Wait!”

  She keeps walking, not even bothering to turn or slow down.

  Muttering curses, I jog onto the Commons, dodging idle people who apparently have no place better to be.

  This woman is my last hope.

  Feeling like some third-rate stalker, I throw aside caution and cover the final distance at a dead sprint.

  When I catch up near the entrance to the exercise facility, she swivels with a scowl. “Stop following me.”

  Although each of her rejections has eroded my confidence, I have to free myself from the hand of Death, so I can get to the person cut into my forearm.

  “Just hear me out,” I say, facing my palms to her.

  Her nostrils flare as her eyes narrow. “This better be different from the last three times you tried to talk to me.”

  What I’m going to ask isn’t any different from those times, but I plow ahead. “It is. We’ve been through two scenarios in a row. Three if you count the first one we were in together. Don’t you get it? This means we can be friends.”

  Not understanding the number’s significance, she shrugs.

  “I’ve been trying to save my stories, but everybody I got close to was killed during the first or second scenario. All those stories kept getting lost. So, I waited until someone lasted past those first two scenarios. And since you have a high score, it means we’ll be together for a long time. We can keep that part of o
urselves.”

  She looks at the cuts on my forearm and shakes her head.

  Not a good sign.

  Frost coats her reply. “Where do I even start? First, not everyone wants to save their memories. Second, just because we survived two or three scenarios together means nothing.”

  “It takes a lot to survive three.”

  “Sandy was with me for five. He’s gone now.”

  I think about the funny guy with the sandy hair, who died falling down a high cliff in the last scenario.

  “This time will be different.”

  “Sandy was a much better fighter than you.”

  “If you train me and teach me what you know, I’ll get better.”

  “Listen up, Mr. Bright Smile.”

  “It’s Vic.”

  “Who cares?” she shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “We are not going to be training together. Or swapping stories. I don’t want to be your friend. This program isn’t about being close to other people.”

  Nearby people pause and stare.

  I shift, uncomfortable with the attention. “Can we talk somewhere quiet?”

  “Will you stop pestering me if we do?”

  “Maybe? Until after the next scenario?”

  She glares for a long moment before blowing out a breath. “Whatever.”

  “I like the museum,” I say.

  “Fine.”

  Silence sits between us as we march over the Commons, heading toward the museum.

  I’m glad for that and glad my inner self has been quiet lately, giving me peace to figure out my next strategy.

  “I’ve been shaking my head.”

  “Oh, there you are. I was wondering why I haven’t heard from you.”

  “When I’m quiet, I’m watching you. And shaking my head and rolling my eyes. Sometimes, I wonder how you manage to walk in a straight line.”

  The snarky comments are getting more annoying, and I wonder if my internal voice is here to help or hinder me.

  “Help you. You understand she only accepted your offer to talk in a secluded place because she wants to yell louder at you.”

  This I know, not needing a sarcastic inner voice to tell me.

  “Then I’ll go back to rolling my eyes and shaking my head.”

  I avoid any outward reaction and walk with Cat through the museum foyer.