Faller

by Will McIntosh

  “What?” Faller’s mouth felt thick and awkward, unable to form words properly.

  Peter Two studied him, scowling. “What happened to you out there?” He pressed his hand over his forehead. “Look, if you have something going on with a woman, that’s your business. But you just flaunted it in Woolcoff’s face. Number One or not, they’re going to come after you for it.”

  Peter Two thought Faller had been talking to a secret lover. But, surveillance cameras? Woolcoff’s people had been watching? Faller tried to remember what he’d said to Melissa and Storm. Had there been anything that would give him away?

  Nothing he could recall. He’d called Woolcoff a prick, told Storm he loved her, but he hadn’t called Melissa by name …

  A cold dread washed over him.

  The photo. He’d taken out the photo of him and Melissa.

  He was dead. They were probably on their way. His friends would never reach him in time.

  Peter Two’s eyes narrowed. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Your memory can’t be that far gone. You did it to force us to act.”

  Faller’s racing pulse slowed. He gave Peter Two his best calm, level stare. “That’s right.”

  Peter Two shook his head in wonder, whispered, “You crazy bastard.”

  “Someone had to wake us up. We can’t spend the rest of our lives with our heads bowed, stepping into the gutter to let people pass. I’d rather be dead.”

  Peter Two considered him with something bordering on awe. “It wasn’t luck that you were the one who got Sandoval. You’re a leader. A true leader.” He nodded. “All right, One, I’m willing to die for a chance to live. Tell me what you want to do.”

  That was the question. A hundred and fifty unarmed Peters couldn’t take on an army. And as soon as the Peters learned who Faller really was, Faller would have no allies at all. All he could possibly hope to accomplish was to take Ugo with him, though even that seemed unlikely. Ugo wasn’t going to show his face until Faller was dead.

  Peter Two waited for orders.

  “I’m going to Defense. Can you get me a gun?” Maybe he could force someone to use the singularity to kill Ugo.

  “Come on.” Peter Two led Faller away from the campus at a jog, toward a side street, and stopped in front of a small white house. “Wait here.” Peter Two paused, added, “You’re not the only one with a girlfriend.”

  It felt as if Peter Two were inside a long time, but that was probably because Faller was so painfully aware of each second ticking by, moving him closer to being found out. Finally, Peter Two came out, pressed close to him, lifted his T-shirt and slid a handgun into his belt.

  “Try to convince the men to rise up,” Faller said. “I’m going after Ugo.” He turned to go, then had an idea. “Hold on.”

  Peter Two turned back.

  “Would you give me your shirt?”

  Peter Two pulled his shirt over his head, handed it to Faller, held out his hand to accept Faller’s in return.

  “We should probably toss this one in the bushes. It might as well have a target drawn on it.”

  Two shook his head, pulled it on. “It might buy you time.”

  Faller clapped Peter Two on the shoulder, feeling terrible. If Two survived, he would hate himself for being duped into helping the monster Peter Sandoval. He’d never understand that Faller didn’t know Peter Sandoval any better than he did.

  As Faller ran toward Defense, he called his friends. Storm answered.

  “Everything’s gone to shit.” He jumped a low stone wall on the edge of the campus. Cutting across the sidewalk, he almost collided with a young couple. “Sorry,” he called over his shoulder as he crossed a street, then, into the phone, “If you don’t hear from me within two hours, go ahead and jump, see what you can find below this world. Don’t waste any more time.”

  “No. We’ll come and get you.” She was fighting back sobs.

  “It’s too late.” Faller worked to keep his emotions in check. He needed his air to run. His lungs were already burning, his thighs rubbery, his shoulder wound shrieking from the jostling. The booze made him feel as if he were running on slanted pavement. He cut down a tree-lined side street. “It was a long shot from the start. At least the rest of you will be safe.” Surely Ugo wouldn’t bother chasing the others once Faller was dead.

  A helicopter thumped in the distance. Faller ducked under a tree, leaned on the rough bough to steady himself.

  “I shouldn’t have let you go. I should have talked you out of it.”

  “We all would have ended up dead,” he said, panting. “You can’t fight someone who can flip worlds.” The whupping of the helicopter faded. Faller ran. A group of four men and women wearing natty suits coming the other way paused as he approached. Faller cut into the street to pass them.

  “Slow down, Peter,” one of the men shouted as Faller passed.

  “I’d better go.” It was difficult to run holding the phone to his ear. “I love you, Storm. I wish this had turned out differently.”

  “Don’t give up, Faller,” Storm shouted. “You sound like you’re giving up.”

  Faller cut up a stairwell between two buildings, pushed past an old woman, mouthed “Sorry,” before pushing on. “I’m just being realistic. You know, that wasn’t exactly the reply I was hoping for.”

  “I love you, too,” Storm shouted into the phone. “That’s why you can’t give up. Find a way out. You fell off a fucking world and found a way out of that.”

  “That’s true.” He’d been lucky, though. He didn’t feel lucky now. “I have to go. I’m sorry, but I’m running for my life.”

  “Run fast, Faller.” Storm disconnected.

  With each step, his legs responded a little more sluggishly. He was nauseous, dizzy, clutching the handrail like the old woman he’d almost knocked over.

  He turned at the sound of gunshots in the distance. Peter Two must have convinced the Peters to join him. Faller wondered if he was still wearing the Number One shirt.

  When he reached the road that led to Defense, he ran headlong into a platoon of soldiers heading the other way, lined up single file. Shouts rose from the soldiers. Rifles turned his way.

  He raised his hands. “Easy. I’m on your side. I’m on my way to Defense to—” He stammered, not sure what a Two would be going to Defense to do. “For support action. Communication. Those Peters with the guns, I don’t know if they’ve lost their minds, or what.”

  The commander of the platoon waved his troops past as Faller rambled on.

  “Good luck,” Faller called. He walked off, keeping his pace brisk but dignified until foliage blocked his view of the soldiers, and vice versa. Then he broke into a run again.

  He thought about the armed guard at the gate, the soldiers at the checkpoint inside. He wasn’t going to talk his way past them. Someone was going to get on a radio and check his story, even if he came up with something convincing.

  Movement in the road ahead caught his eye. More soldiers. Faller looked around for somewhere to hide. A tall cyclone fence ran along one side of the road. Across the street, a squat concrete building sat among mountains of gravel and sand. Big yellow machines—bulldozers, front loaders, steamrollers—lined the back of the lot. He ran through waist-high weeds to the concrete building.

  Inside he found the remains of an office. There was a desk, an overturned swivel chair, a shattered computer screen, a bag of golf clubs leaned up in one corner, golf pictures on one wall. Faller pulled the gun from his pants, sat against the wall to one side of the doorway. The gunfire he’d been hearing in the distance had gone silent. Maybe all the Peters who’d risen up were dead. Melissa had said this plan would only lead to more death, and she’d been right. The Peters were people trapped in a bad situation, nothing more. They didn’t deserve to die.

  The footfalls of the soldiers in the road faded. Faller peered out through the doorway. A spotlight traced a path across the sky before dropping out of sight.

  He needed to ge
t moving. He pushed through weeds, wound behind old buildings and over low fences, staying parallel to the road, periodically eyeing the high fence topped with vicious curls of barbed wire on the other side. Either he needed to find a way over or through it, or he had to storm the gates of the compound. Alone, with one gun.

  It occurred to him that he didn’t even know how much ammunition he had. He paused, knelt in knee-high yellow grass, released the clip as Snakebite had taught him. It was full. He had that going for him, at least.

  From down the road, Faller heard voices. He dropped onto his stomach.

  “Check those buildings.” Faller recognized the voice immediately, because it was his own. “Fifty-six, did you hear what I said? I want someone stationed every two hundred yards.”

  “Sorry,” Fifty-six said.

  Faller heard footsteps to his left, swishing through the grass. He held his breath, stayed perfectly still as a voice called, “Clear,” from a dozen feet away.

  “All right, let’s move.”

  As the Peters moved on, Faller raised his head ever so slightly. Thirty Peters were heading farther down the road, with Peter One—formerly Peter Two—leading. Peter Fifty-six was fifty yards to Peter’s left, standing in the middle of the road, a pistol holstered at his hip.

  Faller was royally screwed. Now he couldn’t even get across the road, let alone into Defense.

  Faller’s gaze lingered on a drainage pipe close to the road, on his side. It disappeared under the road.

  There we go. The voice in his head was Snakebite’s. He could almost see Snakebite squatting beside it, asking, How are you with closed-in spaces?

  Faller eyed the blackness inside the pipe. He honestly didn’t know how he was with closed-in spaces. He belly-crawled through the grass until he reached the opening, then wriggled into the drain, his arms in front of him, his wounded shoulder screaming.

  It smelled like a cross between a swamp and a shithouse. Thick goo from the bottom slid down the neckhole in Faller’s shirt.

  The shoulder made crawling excruciating. He used his feet as much as he could, pushing against the sides of the pipe with his toes, walking himself forward on his elbows.

  It grew dark quickly. He couldn’t help thinking about how much earth was between him and the road above, and what would happen if this pipe just kept sinking lower, into some underground drainage system. There was no way he could back out—it was too tight.

  The pain in his shoulder was blinding. Blinking away a mix of tears and sweat, Faller squinted into the darkness ahead, and realized he could see a circle of dim grey light. Encouraged, he pushed on, his feet churning, scraping the drainpipe, his elbows raw.

  The circle of light grew larger, but not much brighter. He looked up, saw the pipe led into a larger, vertical pipe with a ladder set into the side of it. He saw this through the vertical slits of a metal grate.

  Reaching forward, he grasped the grate, tried to push it open. It rattled, but held firm.

  “Shit.”

  Faller’s heart was hammering wildly.

  Hang on. Snakebite’s voice again. He imagined Snakebite lifting his torso until it pressed the top of the pipe, fumbling at his belt and pulling out a gun.

  Faller couldn’t hold himself up on his bad arm, nor could he use it to draw his own gun, so he rolled onto his back in the muck to pull it from his belt.

  Aware there was a decent chance the bullet would ricochet right back into his face, Faller pointed the muzzle at the bottom hinge, closed his eyes and fired.

  He squeaked like a startled pup at the deafening report, even though he’d been ready for it. The hinge was shredded. He shot out the other one, reached out and pulled open the grate, hoping he was far enough underground that no one had heard the shot.

  He surfaced behind an unlit concrete behemoth of a building.

  Getting his bearings, Faller ducked around to where he could see the Defense building. It was brightly lit. Through the glass doors Faller could see the guarded checkpoint. They’d be watching for his Number Two shirt. He scraped off some of the filth that streaked his shirt, smeared it across the Two on one shoulder, then the other, obscuring both.

  Faller took a few huffing breaths. “You can do this.”

  He jogged into the open, pushed through the front doors.

  “We got him,” he shouted, breathless, excited.

  The three people in the room—two men and a woman, all dressed in fatigues, lowered their assault rifles, their faces relaxing.

  “Where was he?” the woman asked. She looked Faller up and down. “Looks like he put up a fight.”

  Faller walked right up to the trio, smiling. He raised his gun and kept firing until all of them were dead.

  As he retraced the route down to the control room, Faller struggled to keep himself together. They would have shot him if they’d had the chance, he told himself, then they would have gleefully paraded his body down the road at the end of a rope.

  When he reached the heavy door, he paused again, trying to calm himself. There hadn’t been anyone armed in the control center the last time he’d been there, but this time they knew Faller might be on the way.

  It was harder to put a big smile on his face this time, but he did his best.

  “We got him,” he cried out as he hurried in.

  Everyone in the room looked up, including two Peters: A and C.

  There looked to be only one armed person in the room—a soldier watching a big screen over the shoulder of a woman, his assault rifle propped against the desk nearby. Faller walked over and plucked the rifle away from the desk.

  The soldier jerked as if startled awake. He lunged for Faller; Faller took a step back, pointed the handgun at the soldier’s chest.

  He eyed the big steel door. It was six inches thick, clearly intended to keep unfriendlies out, unless the unfriendlies happened to have a bazooka. This would be simpler if only a few people were locked in with him.

  Keeping his back to the door, Faller brandished his pistol at the Peters. “Who here knows how to work the weapons?”

  Peter A curled his lip at Faller. “Go to hell, Sandoval.”

  Faller aimed the pistol at his thigh. “Either answer the question, or I shoot you. You know me. I won’t hesitate.”

  The look Peter A gave him was filled with such contempt, such bald hatred, that Faller had to resist stepping back.

  Faller raised the pistol, pointed it at Peter A’s forehead. “On the count of three, you’re dead.”

  Peter C rolled his eyes up to meet Faller’s. “It’s not theoretical physics, Sandoval. All you need is me.”

  Faller glanced at him. “Fair enough. You two stay. Everyone else, out.”

  “I said, everyone out,” Faller barked, training the gun on the now unarmed soldier.

  The room cleared. Never taking his eye off the Peters, Faller swung the heavy door closed and dropped a huge steel bar in place.

  “I’m guessing you’re no more a fan of Ugo Woolcoff than I am,” Faller said to Peter C.

  Peter C leaned back in his swivel chair. “Don’t try to seek common ground with me, Sandoval. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll decide if I’d rather do it or get shot in the head.”

  “I want you to kill Woolcoff.”

  Peter C shook his head. “This is a military facility. We deal in weapons of mass destruction. I can’t kill one individual from a distance. I don’t even know where Woolcoff is right now. For all I know he’s standing outside that door.”

  Faller pounded the table. “I want him dead. How do I do it?” He was flying blind; he knew nothing about this place, and he couldn’t expect any help from the Peters. He didn’t even know what the singularity could do, and the only other weapon he knew about was—

  “The last time I was here your colleague, Mr. B, threatened to use the blackout virus on Peter Seventeen.”

  Again, Peter C shook his head. “Unless you can bring Woolcoff to this room so I can inject him with it, the B-Virus
is no help to you.” He shrugged. “I could release it, but in a few hours we’d all be blanks.” He gestured toward the door. “And I mean all. That’s a heavy door, but the room isn’t airtight. Wipe Woolcoff and you wipe yourself.”

  Faller leaned against the desk. Wipe himself? The thought of going through Day One all over again made Faller want to shriek. He would forget Snakebite, and falling. He would forget Storm. He didn’t want to start again, an empty glass, a little boy lost and confused.

  What other option did he have, though? Stay there until he died of thirst?

  “What the hell. Let’s hit the reset,” Faller said.

  “Wait,” Peter C said. “You’re joking, right? You don’t really want to—”

  “Do it.”

  Peter C studied him.

  “It’s the only way you and the rest of the Peters will ever be their equals. We can all be ignorant together.”

  Peter C laughed dryly. “I don’t want to be equal that badly.”

  Faller suspected it wasn’t quite that simple. “Is it because you hate me too much to give me what I want, even if it will make both me and Ugo suffer?”

  Peter C leaned back, drew a sack from under the console. Faller snatched it from him.

  “My lunch,” Peter C said. “I’m hungry.”

  Faller looked inside, then handed it back. Peter C drew out an egg, cracked it on the desk, began peeling off the shell. “At this point I hate both of you about equally.” He looked to Peter A. “Would you say that’s accurate?”

  Peter A waggled his hand. “Sandoval still a little more.”

  “Then send us both back to the Stone Age.”

  Peter C took a bite of his egg.

  “Was your memory wiped?” Faller asked.

  Peter C shook his head. “The copy of Peter that I’m a copy of had his memory wiped.”

  “Then you remember how terrible it is, to wake up after it happens.” Faller shrugged. “I’m asking you to inflict that on Ugo and me both.”

  Peter C finished his egg. “And myself.”

  “If you waste much more of my time,” Faller said, doing his best Snakebite imitation, “you can do it using the one finger I’m going to leave you.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder. Still holding the handgun in his good hand, he propped his foot on a chair, withdrew Snakebite’s knife, which was sheathed against his calf.