A woman’s voice out in the hall shouted, “No, no, please!” But a burst of gunfire silenced her. Jessica jumped and bit her lower lip. She had always hated guns. Now she wished she had one.
The air inside the cabinet was hot. Footsteps came down the hall. Men’s voices.
“Check every room,” one said. “No loose ends.”
“I thought I saw a few run this way.”
“Find them, then.”
Oh, my God, thought Jessica.
Her breathing suddenly seemed loud inside the cramped cabinet. With her legs cramped against her chest, she could only take short, shallow breaths, and try as she might, she couldn’t make them quieter or slower.
Footsteps in the room now, moving quickly up and down the rows of islands.
Please help us, she prayed, though she had never been sure that she believed in God. Please.
A burst of gunfire, the sound of wood splintering, and the noise of shattered glass erupted from the other side of the room. Over the noise, she thought she heard someone scream. Merida.
“You hear that?” said a man’s voice.
“I didn’t hear anything except you blasting a fucking cabinet,” said another voice.
Silence, and then more gunfire. A little closer.
Oh, God.
Somewhere down the hall, a woman's voice yelled, “No!”
Again, the footsteps came a little closer. He was moving up the row, firing into each cabinet. The wood of the island vibrated with each burst.
Please, please, please.
He was close now. Jessica squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands.
Again.
Again.
The whole world seemed to explode every time the gun came closer. God, if only she could have one now.
Another burst of fire, very close. Jessica’s ears rang. In the cabinet next to her, the woman let out a terrified sob.
“Please stop!”
“And we have a winner,” said a man’s voice. “Eh?”
“You were right,” said the other one, clearly annoyed. “You were right.”
Jessica heard the woman’s cabinet door swing open. She ought to do something. But what could she do? She couldn’t climb out of the cabinet quickly, and even if she could, what then?
There was more gunfire from the hallway outside.
“Please!” wailed the woman, her voice muffled by the wood between her and Jessica. “Why are you doing this? I have a family—a husband and a son!”
“Orders,” said the man.
Jessica waited, too terrified to move, for the gunfire to erupt. For a moment, the only sounds in the world were the woman’s sobbing and the sound of Jessica’s own heart, which in the face of death raced as if it had to pound out a certain number of beats before it was stilled forever.
“Please,” said the woman again.
The burst of gunfire was so loud that it was more like silence than sound.
45
The elevator hummed almost inaudibly as they ascended to the sixth sub-level. Val, Kim, and Braden stood to one side, their arms around each other, while Celina and Francis stood on the other side. Celina wore a patient smile, but Francis sobbed silently. Occasionally, Celina would look at Francis, and Val wondered if they were communicating telepathically. She hoped it wasn’t a mistake to have broken these two out.
“This isn’t your fault,” said Braden.
“I know,” said Val. She didn’t, and Braden knew she was lying, of course.
Kim kissed the side of Val’s face.
“I married you for your body,” he said, “but you sure turned out to be worth having around in case of kidnapping, too.” He gave her the crooked smile of someone bravely enduring a lot of pain.
Val kissed him on the mouth, trying not to think about what came next, what came after they escaped this place.
The elevator came to a stop. Val let go of her family and picked up the rifle, which she had leaned against the wall.
“In the corners,” Val said, pushing Braden and Kim toward the front corner of the elevator.
“There’s nobody out there,” said Celina. “They’re two floors above us.”
“She’s right,” said Braden.
The elevator door slid open with a sigh and revealed an empty hallway lined with conduits and pipes like the one that Val had been handcuffed to.
Braden gasped. “They’re killing people. They're killing everyone. We have to help them.”
Val looked at his beautiful face and his sincere eyes. They were already full of the same ferocity that Val herself felt. If they made it out of this, what would he grow up to be, now that he had to live his life running?
“I’m not risking you or your dad again,” said Val.
“I can stop them if we get closer,” said Celina as she stepped out of the elevator. “I can make them all f—” She looked at Braden and thought better of something. “I can shut them down, no problem. Between the three of us, we’ve got this.” She looked at Francis, who still stared at the floor, weeping. “Two of us. Besides, they're between us and our only way out. We go through them, or we don't go at all.”
“Mom,” said Braden. “We can stop them. Remember what I did?”
“There has to be another way,” said Val.
“There isn't,” said Celina. “These stairs go up to level four, which is where the bad guys are right now. The elevator and stairs to the surface are on the other end of the level. There’s no way around them.”
Val looked at each of the others. Celina stood just outside the elevator door, turning her head to look in each direction. Braden stared up at her expectantly. Francis, who had said nothing since she had broken him out of his cell, stood with his head down like a whipped dog, his back to the corner. Kim took Val’s hand.
We can trust her, said Braden's voice in Val's head. She's... she's got some very weird things in her head, but she's not lying. We have to go through the men.
He's right, said Celina's voice.
Val and Braden both looked at her. She smiled, but it was a sad, almost ashamed smile. Val hadn't ever thought about what it would be like to be around more than one telepath.
And yeah, I might be batshit. Who knows?
“Sorry,” said Braden.
“No problem, kid,” Celina said. “Time to go if you want to go with me. I’m headed up.”
She disappeared through the door to the stairs.
Val looked at Braden and held up the rifle. “You need to be prepared. If I have to use this thing...”
“I understand,” said Braden, who stared at the gun.
They ascended the stairs quickly. Even though Val and Kim had guns, it made sense to let Celina take the lead. She knew where she was going, and she could “see” better than either of them right now. Val stayed right behind her, followed by Braden and Francis. Kim stayed in the back with the pistol in case anyone approached from behind.
As they climbed the last flight before the fourth sub-level, Celina’s voice spoke in Val’s head. Your husband is definitely devoted to you.
I know, thought Val.
Celina glanced back at her as they reached the top of the stairs. I doubt that. You can't really know someone unless you can read their thoughts, can you? You just don't—
But the sound of gunfire and screaming above them cut her off.
“Shit,” said Celina, picking up her pace and leaving Val behind.
“They're killing everybody!” screamed Braden. “I can feel all of them! I can feel them dying!”
Val turned. Braden had stopped on the stairs and covered his ears and temples with his hands as if that would protect him from death.
The gunfire and screaming stopped.
Val crouched next to Braden and put an arm around his shoulder. They couldn't take him into this. But they couldn't go back, either. The DHS agents were going to comb every inch of the building, ki
lling everyone they found.
“Let's find somewhere to hide on floor five,” she said. “And if anyone comes near us, you can...”
But Braden looked at her, something frightening in his eyes. Val had a hard time returning his gaze.
In her mind, Val saw a room filled with computers, and a man in tactical gear advanced on her, his rifle firing. She felt the burst of rounds hit her, and she felt the terror of knowing that she would die. Just when she thought that her heart might burst in her chest, the image and the feeling disappeared. Braden still looked at her.
“We have to go stop them, Mom,” he said.
Come on, said Celina's voice. I need help up here.
Braden shrugged off Val's arm and ran up the stairs.
“Braden!” shouted Kim, but the boy disappeared around a turn in the stairs. Val ran after him, her heartbeat pounding and her skin damp with cold sweat.
She caught up to him at the top of the stairs, where he stood just on the other side of the door to the fourth level. Val's heart stopped. Several DHS agents stood around him, towering over her son the way the men in his dream had done. Braden had run right into them, and now fear had paralyzed him. She raised her gun to fire, but a hand fell on her shoulder, and Kim spoke.
“No, look,” said Kim.
And Val understood. The men were frozen in place, unable to move because Celina had taken over their minds.
I've got them, said Celina. But I could use a little help. I think they've got somebody cornered in one of the rooms.
Gunfire erupted from a hallway on the other side of the room, and glancing back at Val, Braden started running.
“No!” said Val.
But Braden didn't stop. Dodging between the men who stood like statues and leaping over bodies that lay on the floor, he moved more quickly than Val. He ran through the passage into the hallway on the other side of the room.
More gunfire. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass.
Val followed. She ran past rows of desks and computers, past the corpses, past the smears and streaks and pools of blood, and into a long hallway.
Braden disappeared through the doorway of a room on the left. Three doors past it, two men in black stepped out of another room. Val raised the gun and fired before they could even turn to see her. Both collapsed to the ground, one without a sound and the other with a wet scream that didn’t last long.
As she passed the body of a man lying on the floor, Val slipped on a streak of blood and slid onto her side, dropping the gun. Her elbow and hip struck the tile floor and sent flares of pain through her arm and leg.
And then more gunfire erupted from the room that Braden had just entered.
46
Simmons's body lay face-down on the ground, her head no longer a head but just a splatter of flesh, bone, and hair. Bowen’s stomach lurched at the sight.
“I'm sorry, Simmons,” Bowen said, shocked at how much his voice quavered.
She made me what I am, said Theresa's voice. The both of you. You made me into this.
“But you're the one...” said Bowen. He wouldn't communicate with her by thought any more. “You're the one who made me do that.”
Suddenly Bowen felt his disgust and pity disappear, and his chest tightened with anger. Wasn't that strange? After giving himself over to death and resignation, now rage wrung his heart like a hand twisting wet cloth. He wanted to oppose the whole world, be a cleansing fire to burn the whole damn place down until something new could take its place.
But with a sickening turn in his guts, Bowen also felt the shame that he had always associated with cowardice. It was the feeling he'd always had to squash when he'd been forced to choose between the easy option and the hard option. When the choices were between some long-term goal and some short-term pleasure. But he never felt anything like guilt at times like this, just the brief and irrational thought that he ought to feel guilt. He was dying. Why should anyone expect him to think of “long-term goals?” Why should he be ashamed of being a craven?
For that matter, where the hell had this sudden moral outrage come from—this righteous indignation that squeezed his heart until it might rupture from the pressure?
And then he understood. The unquenchable fury that mixed with his shame wasn't his. It had come from her. He doubted it was intentional, but she was making him feel her emotions. The scientist in him couldn't help finding this fascinating. They'd had her for years, and all they'd known about her was that she was a telepath. But she was also an empath—and a what? Bowen couldn't think of a word for her healing power.
I'm not going to force you to go unless you make me, said Theresa's voice. Take me to the others. I need your handprint to get me through the doors. I already know how to get to them, so I'll know if you try to take me somewhere else.
Bowen looked up from Simmons's body. In the twilight, Theresa's eyes were shadowed, but Bowen could see pinpoints of light there. The beautiful green that Bowen had so craved was now shadowed in darkness, only a tiny sliver of light left in them.
And if you think about trying anything dumb, I'll know about it ahead of time.
“I know you will,” said Bowen. But he had already been a fool. Nothing would change that now.
She stepped closer to him, and as much as he hated her for what she'd just made him do, he couldn't help thinking of the way her mouth had tasted. And glancing down at Simmons, he couldn't help hating himself for it. Simmons had done nothing except her job. She hadn't deserved to have her head blown off.
After we get the others out, I'm going to kill you, too.
“I know,” said Bowen. There was that, at least.
He took her through the main entrance to the Bagley Center. As they passed through the glass double doors, Bowen thought with a sad gratitude that this would be the last time he came this way. Yesterday he would have just been sad.
As they crossed the tile floor toward the reception desk, Theresa walked behind him. It was as if she had a gun pointed at his back as he led her toward their goal. But of course, Theresa didn't have a gun. She was the gun. If she could heal, Bowen wondered, could she do the opposite, too? Could she create wounds as easily as she could heal them?
As if in answer to his questions, Theresa's voice spoke.
You don't know a damn thing about me.
“Clearly not,” said Bowen.
The vestibule was empty and quiet. Harold, the only male receptionist, should have been there tonight, but the front reception desk was empty. No doubt he had run and hidden at the sound of gunfire. He was a skinny, skittish kid, and Bowen imagined that he'd climb onto the desk at the sight of a mouse. But where were the DHS agents who had brought in the journalist? They hadn't planned to go after the infant or the computer until after midnight. Why hadn't they shown up in the quad to stop Theresa? Maybe Bowen wasn't the only craven at the Institute today.
We'll go through your office, said Theresa's voice.
“You don't have to do this,” said Bowen. “I'm going to die, anyway. I was planning to die tonight, as a matter of fact.”
If she had an opinion about this, Theresa didn't share it with Bowen.
As they passed the reception desk, the smell hit him first. A sickening metallic smell, like the scent of your hands after you've put them on a wet, bare metal handrail. He saw something out of the corner of his eye and stopped to stare. Harold's body lay on his side next to the chair, his legs still under the desk. A pool of blood, so dark it was almost black, had spread under his head and neck. Someone had slit his throat.
“Oh, what the—” Bowen began, but he couldn't finish the thought because his stomach contracted at the smell, doubling him over and making him retch. This was too much damn blood for one day. He put his hand on the desk to steady himself as he vomited up bile that smelled like alcohol. Thank God he hadn't eaten anything today.
Keep it together, said Theresa's voice.
Bowen forced hi
mself to stop heaving. His head swam, though, and he tasted alcohol and iron in his mouth. Good grief, bourbon was terrible coming back up.
“This is a bad idea,” he groaned when he could speak. “We don't need to—”
But even as he spoke, his legs started moving. He tried to overcome Theresa's influence, but his legs carried him toward the door to his office, and his palm placed itself on the handprint scanner to let them in.
This is what you wanted, he thought, not caring if Theresa was listening. Now you've done it. Isn't it fun?
They were in the stairwell, passing the door to sub-level three when Bowen heard the screams and the gunfire coming from level four. Theresa put a hand on Bowen’s shoulder, and he stopped with his feet on two different steps. He broke into goosebumps on his neck, shoulder, and arm.
They’re killing all of them, she said in his mind. The soldiers. Agents. They’re killing everybody, even the nurses.
Suddenly she shoved Bowen into the stair rail, forcing him sideways so that his upper body leaned over the rail.
What is wrong with all of you?!
“You think I want any of this?” said Bowen. “I’m a piece of shit. All I wanted to do was to have sex with you and Celina before I died. But I like most of the people I work with. You think I want them killed by a bunch of cowboy commandos?”
She pushed him against the rail until his side and back ached. She was so close to him that he could kiss her again. Fury had twisted her beautiful face into a caricature of itself. But for a second her rage faltered and seemed to wither so that her perfect face returned.
“Shit, I’m going to die anyway,” he said, and he leaned forward to kiss her. But Theresa drew back, letting him off the handrail, and slapped him. The sound echoed up and down the stairwell, and Bowen’s face felt like it had a bad sunburn.
More gunfire and screams on the floor below.
“If I had to guess, though,” he said, rubbing his cheek, “I would be willing to bet that this is all because of what you did up there.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “They’re probably under orders to kill everybody at the Institute in the event of an Anomaly breaking out.”
The Way Out Page 25