by Mason Dakota
I swung at his right hip. Ziavir blocked and countered for the first time. His sword slashed across my chest. I tried to skip back but failed. The sharp blade sliced through my coat and part of my shirt underneath. I felt the warm seeping of blood on skin through cloth.
Ziavir came in with a thrust at my gut. I defended his stab and jabbed my staff forward. I struck Ziavir in the gut and forced him several feet back down the walkway. I stepped in and twisted the staff around my back and came in with another hard strike.
He tried to duck. I clipped him across the back of his head. He slammed against the wall. I followed through and flipped the staff to strike his wounded left shoulder. He dropped from the force the of blow, but sprang upward, jaw clenched tight, and leapt backward into a fighting stance farther away from me.
I followed him like a shark does the scent of blood.
The walkway opened onto a large open space. That space would give me the advantage with my staff. I just had to get him there. I pressed in closer and swung the staff like a bat. The bo-staff struck with a metallic clang that vibrated through my muscles. But I never hit Ziavir. Instead, missing him and his sword, my staff connected straight with a pipe on the wall.
He played me!
I realized then how the walls pressed in closer down each foot of the walkway. I couldn’t swing my long bo-staff any more by that point. Ziavir led me there to make his strike.
He gave a wicked smile and said, “My turn.”
No longer did he play the role as weak and struggling defender. He struck fast with each blow meant to wound but not kill. He wanted to kill me slowly. He wanted me to suffer. I tried to block, but in such a tight space I couldn’t maneuver my staff that well. In a blurry of sword swings, he sliced up my coat and clothing, leaving fresh cuts all across my body.
Death by a thousand cuts.
I’m not being killed; I’m being butchered like a pig!
I cried out as steel sliced across my skin. Blood seeped down my arms, legs, and chest. My hands, heavy as lead, struggled to keep a grip on my staff. I scrambled and slipped, catching myself on the pipes and exposing my back for more vicious cuts. I struggled back to my feet, slipping on blood. I tried to push Ziavir away, tried to swing my staff between us, but nothing seemed to work. The more I fought the more painful it became and the more quickly I died.
I needed to do something drastic!
Ziavir swung at my left ear intending to slice it completely off. I shifted my weight and stance as I kicked out toward Ziavir’s groin instead of blocking. The kick sent him reeling over slightly while his sword sliced me across the left side of my forehead. Head wounds bleed the worst. Blood burned my eyes and blinded me. I fumbled forward and grabbed the side of Ziavir’s head. I smashed his head twice into the pipes against the wall.
He pushed off me with a shout of rage and swung an uppercut blow with the sword. I whirled the bo-staff before me. The sword clashed harmlessly with the bo-staff, sending out a metallic ring. Ziavir reared back to stab my chest. My eyes darted to the wall on my left. A yellow pressure lever with a valve sticking out and pointing toward Ziavir hung off a pipe on the wall. My hand shot out and slapped the lever down just as Ziavir came in. Hot steam shot out of the valve right into Ziavir’s face. Screaming, he abandoned the strike to back away.
I followed, thrusting forward with my staff. It hit him in the chest and sent a jolt of pain up my burning arms. He stumbled close to the steps leading down the walkway that entered into the large room.
I’m so close!
I sprinted forward, slammed the end of the staff into the ground, pushed off into a pole vault, smacked into Ziavir’s chest and lifted him right off the ground. Ziavir flew further into the wide open room, bounced across the floor and slid into a far wall. I crash landed right down the four steps leading down to the open space.
White hot pain flashed through my body. I made a sound between a cry and a groan as the pain momentarily paralyzed me. Blood covered me and filled my mouth. Excruciating pain throbbed through every cell of my body. It took us both a couple of seconds to stand to our feet. I used my staff to raise me up, resting my full weight upon it to stand. My legs shook violently. The urge to vomit nearly overtook me.
Exhaustion became my name and weakness my physical description. A stronger man than I would charge forward, but I wasn’t that man. My reserves were depleted. My strength was gone. Ziavir, however, looked more furious than hurt or tired. Tears and grime covered his face and eyes, and though he appeared injured and nearly blind, he looked far better than I did.
Another stab to my pride.
He renewed his fighting stance and faced me. He waited. He taunted me to continue. Despite pain and exhaustion, my pride refused to quit. I gritted my teeth, ripped off my mask and wiped at the blood on my forehead with the sleeve of my duster. I threw my mask to the side and stumbled into a shaky fighting stance.
Then we started once again a dance of clashing steel and ringing metal.
It sounded like a weird orchestra of musicians with only bells and triangles. We moved in no set rhythm as I would attack with a blow or two, each one feeling like it would be my last, and he would deflect them with ease. Then he would counter and I would block, feeling like I was trying to stop a train with my bare hands. Often, he got past my defenses to land another cut on my leg or arm or torso. He danced around me and I sluggishly tried to keep up with his speed and endurance.
Ziavir suddenly changed tactics and swung for my neck. I figured decapitation was his end goal. I threw my body to the side and blocked by planting my staff before me. The sword struck just as I twisted the staff end upward. It struck Ziavir’s hand and with his cry of pain the sword flung free. It flew away through the air, leaving Ziavir defenseless. Ziavir skipped back a step and changed the game once more. He drew his gun. I dove and flopped on the ground as he fired.
His exhaustion and injuries threw off his aim. His first two shots struck the wall and machines behind me. They sparked and smoked. The lights in the room flickered repeatedly. The machines wailed. I climbed to my feet, tripping just slightly in the process.
Ziavir wiped at his eyes with the back of his shirt sleeve and fired again. He missed and struck a pipe that time. Hot steam shot out everywhere creating a thick fog in the room. Another missed shot hit a different machine and the room rained with a shower of golden sparks.
In a scramble, I dropped the bo-staff and drew my whip. My whip was special; the tip was soaked heavily in gasoline.
Gasoline plus sparks equal fun.
Before he could fire again, I launched the tip of the whip toward Ziavir. It went through the shower of sparks, igniting the leather, and wrapped itself around his pistol. I tugged hard to pull the whip back just as the tip set fire. Ziavir shouted as I whipped the flaming gun from his grasp. He darted forward with his recovered sword in hand.
I whirled and crackled the fiery whip before him and the air exploded with the popping whip and its cannon fire. A large ball of fire rolled through the air and struck Ziavir in the chest. He twisted and collapsed, slipping on the puddles of water from the burst pipes.
His shirt and Kevlar were singed from the strikes of my flaming whip. Somehow, he struggled and stood and held his sword out before him. I twirled the whip around me and struck again. The whip wrapped around his sword arm and he screamed out in agony as the flames seared his skin. I pulled back and Ziavir’s sword was airborne. He fell to his knees holding his burning hand in pain.
I won the fight. I could have shown him mercy. I could have spared him from any further blows.
But I didn’t.
I reared the whip back and struck once, then twice and then a third time. Short flames erupted with each blow across his body. The whip ripped across his legs, ripped through his Kevlar vest, and then the third blow struck his injured left arm. The blows left singed skin and blood everywhere. I wanted to continue. I wanted to watch him die slowly after everything he’d done. I wanted to give
in to the darkness within me once and for all. It tasted sweet and good with each bite and lash. But I grew weaker with each breath.
His burned hand shot up as he screamed, “Stop! Have mercy!”
I froze with the whip held high, ready to strike again. I panted, feeling blood pump vigorously through me and out every burning scrape and cut. Nausea wafted through me. The world spun around me. I caught myself on the generator to keep myself upright.
“Please, stop. You win. I surrender.”
“You don’t deserve mercy,” I snarled and struck again. The whip made up for my growing weakness. I struck his right armpit and he rolled over screaming. I saw the burns spread across his body. His clothes were ash. He cringed. I smiled.
You deserve ever bit of this.
I didn’t strike again; I was too tired to lift the whip. It fell to the ground with me joining it. I used my bo-staff as a level to push myself back up. The weapon became my cane.
I scowled at Ziavir with malice. I wanted him dead; I wanted to spill all of his blood. It felt good to finally do it. But time was slipping away, and I needed answers.
“Tell me how to stop the bomb…and maybe I’ll let you die with dignity,” I whispered.
“It can’t be stopped. It’s part of the design. In a few minutes it’ll go off and it’ll all be over.”
His expression bore the truth. He wasn’t lying; I knew it in my gut. That’s how I would have designed the bomb—no way to stop it. I probably knew that from the beginning. I knew I really went this far to kill Ziavir…not to save Chicago. It was a sinful, selfish decision. I took Michael and Thomas along for that crusade with lies and promises of heroism.
I nodded and said, “Tell me who runs Nebula. Who are you working for? I know you’ve been following orders all this time. So who’s calling the shots?”
Ziavir made some sort of chuckle sound and said, “The man who gave you your mask. Gabriel.”
I crumbled to the floor.
“Gabriel?” I whispered. I couldn’t breath. My body trembled. My stomach turned with a sucker punch.
Impossible!
Why would Ziavir try to trick me this way?
But somehow I knew it to be true.
All the signs were there. I just never payed attention. From all the lies and deceptions Gabriel admitted to the mysterious way Nebula knew everything about us and how they were always one step ahead. How could I not see it? We trusted him like a father! And he betrayed us. He betrayed our city!
Ziavir rolled to his side to face me. He watched me, taking in my reaction. He didn’t smile but looked…heart broken. I didn’t get a chance to question him before a crash echoed through my earpiece as Michael shouted, “Shaman! I need you!”
I turned my head away from Ziavir and pressed a finger to my ear. “What’s going on?” I hissed into the headset. There came an explosion from the other end and a scream. The sounds of exchanging gunfire followed.
“Michael, Michael! Are you still there?”
I heard a door and spun around, not sure what to expect. I barely caught a glimpse of Ziavir disappearing through a doorway in the opposite direction from Michael’s location. A wall of sparks and steam separated us. They were so hot they would burn me if I followed him. Right then I realized why Ziavir missed all those shots. He wasn’t aiming for me. He aimed purposefully for the machines and the pipes to cover his future escape. It was brilliant and deceptive.
I took a step to chase after him without thinking but froze when Michael screamed. “Someone! Help me!” More gunfire echoed in my ear.
I stood between two choices.
Chase after Ziavir…or go to Michael’s rescue?
I had faced that decision once before. I chose Ziavir over Chamberlain. Now fate seemed to twist irony back in my face.
With Ziavir and Chamberlain, I chose wrongly.
Refusing to make that mistake again, I turned away from the door and headed back toward Michael. I couldn’t abandon another friend.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I half limped, half scrambled back into the room where Michael remained. He sat shaking with his back pressed against the bomb. He held the gun up, slide pulled back across an empty chamber, and it rattled as it tapped against his wrist watch. Michael looked just as vacant as the gun.
The bullet-pierced water tank sprayed water across the room, creating large puddles that covered the whole floor. Two bodies lay at the door where I had set the claymore. Their bodies were riddled with pellets; it looked as though both were killed instantly. A third attacker had survived the blast and moved into the room. He and Michael had a gunfight. His body lay not much farther from his comrades.
Michael’s first kill?
I crouched next to Michael and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You good?” I asked. He nodded, but his eyes never left the dead body of the third attacker. He was in shock. I patted his shoulder and stood back up to look around.
Safe…I hoped.
The bomb’s clock ticked down from three minutes.
Why can’t it say three hours remaining?
I looked back to Michael and sighed. I needed him focused; I needed his help to perform what would be an impossible task even on a good day.
“How far did you get with the bomb?” I asked trying to distract him from the violent scene.
“Huh?” he asked without looking at me.
“The bomb, Michael! How far did you get working on it?”
“Bomb?”
“Yes Michael! The whole reason why we are here. Can it be disarmed? Did you get far working on it?”
Recognition finally struck him and he shook his head frantically and said, “Not far. Griffon, I’m sorry.”
“Can it be disarmed?”
He cast his eyes downward with a look of defeat and turmoil.
My gut dropped in despair. “Yeah…Ziavir said something like that.”
I lightly kicked the bomb with my toe and tried to accept certain doom. At least from where I stood I would be the first to go. That felt right.
“There…there is something you need to know. It’s not a nuclear explosive. It’s an…EMP.”
Why does he seem ashamed to say that?
“An…EMP? You mean that device you were telling us about, the one that fries electricity?”
Michael nodded.
“But that’s not as bad as a nuclear bomb, right? I mean that would only, shut off the power for like a day or two, right?” I asked.
Michael shook his head and said, “The device you see isn’t really the bomb. This whole building is, thanks to those two scientists. This is more of a…conductor of sorts…to boost the device’s power. It will permanently fry every electronic device in the city for good. The effects would last for months and maybe even years.”
“What sort of damage are we talking about?” I asked.
“Disastrous. Everything runs by electricity and tech in Chicago. Everything would shut down, transportation and heating and even plumbing. Food will run out. Trade will cease. It would send the entire Empire into an economic depression. Hospitals will stop working. People will starve in the streets. Eventually social barriers between Outcasts and Nobles would crumble due to the basic human need for survival. The effects will be worse by winter. It will be a slow, miserable death drawn out over many years.”
“And there is no way to stop it from happening?”
Michael shook his head.
“Then Nebula wins,” I whispered. Michael didn’t reply.
“And if the bomb goes off…we will survive the blast…but Chamberlain, lying there on life-support, won’t?” I asked.
Michael nodded and said, “Yes…if it goes off it will kill the machines keeping Chamberlain alive.”
Somehow that makes things much worse.
I slumped to the ground next to Michael, my back pressed to the device that would kill my best friend. And there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. So close and yet again Nebula was going to win. It wasn’t f
air! It was wrong! I had worked too hard and sacrificed too much! I gritted my teeth. I clinched my fists. And then I screamed out my frustration till my lungs burned.
“This is wrong! There has to be something we can do!”
“There is,” whispered Michael.
My head snapped to look at him and I whispered, “What?”
“There is something we can do.” He wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“I thought you said it can’t be deactivated.”
“It can’t. But it can be redirected.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…the device is designed to have an effect that extends beyond itself and destroy this city. We can turn its effects inward instead.”
“What…what happens if we do that?”
“It blows up…for real. As well as this building. We would die for sure.”
“And the city?”
“The city goes on as if this very bad day never happened. Only those inside the building will die. The city…the empire…the world as we know it will continue.”
“And Chamberlain?”
“He will live for sure. But we will die.”
“Oh…”
The silence that stretched between us lasted an eternity. It wasn’t until then that I realized the slight ticking sound of the bomb’s clock. Seconds passed. Neither of us spoke or even looked at each other. We waited, hoping for a better outcome or idea to present itself…or maybe for better men to decide the fate of millions.
What would Chamberlain do if our places were switched.
He would do the right thing.
I stood to my feet, my body a mess of creaking bones and bleeding injuries. Broken and scarred, body, mind, and soul, I had to do what was right. I looked at Michael, who for the first time looked me in the eyes and waited for my direction to decide our fates. I had led him there. He waited on me to lead him to the finish. Or maybe he knew neither of us could get there without the support of the other.