Helix_Episode 1

by Nathan M. Farrugia

  ‘Resistance?’ Damien surveyed the three border control officers. ‘I’m not with any resistance .’

  The other two officers, Price and Gray, exchanged glances .

  ‘No?’ White arched an eyebrow. ‘No plans to overthrow your government ?’

  Damien swallowed. ‘I’m here for the coffee .’

  White folded his arms. ‘I prefer Starbucks .’

  ‘And I preferred that bus,’ Damien said. ‘The one you’re supposed to put me on .’

  ‘We’re not putting anyone on that bus.’ He approached Damien and leaned in to whisper. ‘We’re changing things. You should be honored, the change starts with you .’

  ‘So I’m a terrorist now?’ Damien asked .

  ‘No,’ White said. ‘You’re worse .’

  Standing off to the side, Price sliced his own forearm. Damien watched blood well across the laceration on his arm .

  ‘Let me guess,’ Damien said, ‘I attacked you with a knife .’

  ‘And we responded appropriately.’ White removed the radio from his belt, ready to make the call .

  Price took a knee beside Damien and tugged on a cable tie around Damien’s duct-taped wrist. Gray stood nearby but she didn’t assist, her hand resting on her belt. Damien gripped both plastic armrests and tried to pull free, but it was no use .

  ‘Is this what you call responding appropriately?’ Damien asked .

  Price and Gray ignored him. White stepped back and placed his radio on the table. Price slipped the knife blade under Damien’s cable tie. Under Damien’s fingertips, the plastic armrests felt soft and hot .

  White smiled. ‘Tell me, what would you call responding appropriately ?’

  His gaze shifted to the wisps of smoke coming from Damien’s hands. Damien’s wrists were still fastened to the armrests, but Price dropped his knife and cursed .

  ‘This,’ Damien said .

  He pried the gooey armrests from the chair. White went for his pistol. Molten plastic splattered his face and he screamed .

  Above White’s head, a globule of liquefied plastic hit the sprinkler, melting the glass bulb underneath. The sprinkler blasted water into everyone’s faces. Damien flicked his armrest, hoping to spray molten plastic in Price’s face. Both armrests fused rapidly, becoming jagged batons in his seared hands .

  Well, that didn’t work .

  Price and Gray spat water and reached for their projectile stun guns. The guns were black and shaped like spiked cow bells .

  Damien slapped a jagged armrest down on Price’s arms. The gun dropped to the wet linoleum floor. Damien bent his other elbow and knocked Gray’s aim off. She fired her gun. Two electrode darts missed Damien’s nose by an inch and struck Price .

  Damien stood between them. Through the downpour, White drew his Heckler & Koch pistol. But Gray’s arms were in the way, still sending an electric current through to her partner. By the time Gray had realized what she’d done, it was too late. Damien whipped the armrest over her arms and sliced across her neck. Simultaneously, he rammed the other armrest into the back of her leg. Gray shrieked until her voice cracked .

  White sidestepped, searching for a clear shot. Damien kicked Gray in the hip, sent her crashing into White. Damien’s sneaker, missing its shoelaces, went flying .

  Price, with conductive wires dangling from a bleeding cheek, regained control. He lunged for Damien, his wet knife gleaming. Damien retreated quickly. The knife cut air. Damien moved closer. The knife cut below his ribcage. He stepped around it, used an armrest to guide the knife and sent Price stumbling forward. Damien pushed him into White. Damien’s other sneaker loosened and he almost tripped. White circled around Price and aimed .

  Damien discarded both armrests and charged behind Price. He snatched a dangling conductive wire from the stun gun and looped it over Price’s neck, then slammed him into White, pinning them both to the desk. They struggled for oxygen. White dropped his pistol and Damien saw it skitter across the water-slicked table .

  White clawed for his firearm. Damien pushed harder. White’s fingers knocked it farther across the table, past the radio and tablet. It wobbled near the edge, just out of reach. White gave up on his firearm and shoved Price back into Damien .

  Damien slipped, lost his other sneaker completely. He moved around Price, his wet socks sliding on the linoleum. Blood and water stung his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision and saw Price slump to the floor. White rolled over the table to rescue his pistol. He faced Damien and exhaled sharply, unclogging his nose. Between them, his radio and tablet on the table .

  Damien and White—soaked from sprinkler water and diluted blood—watched each other. He knew White might try to shoot him at close range. Or he might call for assistance. But he couldn’t do both. Not before Damien got to him .

  White dived for the radio .

  Damien slid feet-first under the table. White yelled into the radio. He was mid-sentence when Damien kicked his ankles out from under him. There was a hollow clonk as White’s head struck the table. Damien got to his feet behind White and saw the radio bounce across the floor .

  He closed on White, squinting through sprinkler water. White grasped his pistol and turned to strike. Damien ducked and grabbed the tablet. It was slippery in his grasp. He slammed its edge down on White’s wrist, then into his elbow, then across his neck. White’s grip on the pistol loosened, but he didn’t let go .

  Damien knocked White’s legs out from under him and slammed the tablet flat on his head, pinning his head to the table. He twisted the pistol and White’s index finger broke inside the guard. From underneath the tablet, White roared in pain. Water spilled off the tablet and Damien pressed harder, hard enough so White couldn’t even think of resisting. Just the right amount of pressure on his skull and White stopped wriggling .

  Damien leaned over and spoke loud enough so White could hear over the sprinkler .

  ‘Where does the bus go?’ he asked .

  White grunted and wheezed. ‘You’re wasting your time .’

  Damien discarded the tablet. ‘Who takes the people on that bus? Where do they go ?’

  White spluttered water, mixed with blood. ‘I don’t know !’

  Damien pressed his bare hands into White’s head .

  ‘Thermogenic genes,’ Damien said. ‘I can fry your brain in seconds .’

  ‘Get bent,’ White whispered .

  Damien could feel the twitches and muscular contractions along his arms, transferring hundreds of degrees of heat through his fingertips and searing White’s face. His mouth was open and he gurgled something .

  ‘Three days ago, someone on that bus route disappeared,’ Damien said. ‘His name was Jay .’

  White caught his breath. ‘His passport … flagged like yours. But I didn’t touch — ’

  ‘No shit. Where was he taken ?’

  White’s skin turned purple and red. His gasps became ragged under Damien’s burning fingertips. Damien looked over at the other officers. They were crumpled on the floor, soaked in water and blood .

  It took White a few breaths to respond. ‘Facility .’

  Damien pressed down on White’s skull .

  White dribbled blood. ‘Colombia .’

  ‘Where in Colombia ?’

  White’s body convulsed. There was a clear red imprint of Damien’s fingers on his face that looked like sunburn. Damien removed his hand, peeling a layer of pink skin from White’s neck. There was something small and dark with a hard corner. Damien peered closer. It looked like some sort of tracking chip .

  Chapter Seven

  D ressed in White’s wet border control uniform, Damien stepped through the evacuating personnel in the corridor and entered the evidence room. He had to admit it felt good to be armed again, even if he was soaked. He carried a stun gun, an unconcealed pistol—standard issue Heckler & Koch P2000—and a strong urge to get out of here as soon as possible .

  The evidence room was vacant, but the evidence bag containing his phone and
earbuds was still on the table. He fished out the phone, keyed in his passcode, and dialed .

  The first thing he heard was Nasira, swearing. Judging by the background noise, she was driving too .

  ‘Good to hear your voice,’ Damien said .

  She sighed. ‘I take it you’re not on the bus I’m following right now .’

  ‘No, but I dropped my tracking device before they yanked me off the bus,’ Damien said. ‘Which I guess is why you think I’m still on the bus. That’s a good thing, right ?’

  ‘You’re in the middle of the goddamn border control station, ain’t you?’ Nasira said .

  ‘I wouldn’t say the middle of the station,’ Damien said. ‘Maybe the south-west corner .’

  Nasira sighed again. ‘Well, shit .’

  He heard her make a fast turn, wheels screeching .

  ‘I might need your help.’ Damien said. ‘Getting out of here could be tricky .’

  ‘Understatement of the century,’ she said. ‘Can you get to the south entrance? Near vehicle inspection ?’

  ‘I’ll try .’

  ‘You better do more than try, I’m already rescuing one stupid son of a bitch,’ she said. ‘Ain’t gonna make that two .’

  ‘I’m keeping you on the line,’ Damien said .

  ‘So I can hear your ass get shot?’ Nasira said. ‘Yeah, I look forward to it .’

  He took his earbuds from the evidence bag and popped one in each ear, then threaded the cable under his wet shirt. It was already beginning to dry. The upside to having thermogenic genes—otherwise dormant in most humans—was the high body core temperature. Most viruses burned out before they could make him sick, and he rarely felt cold. Plus, he could quick-dry a uniform in less than a minute. Damien slipped the phone into his hip pocket and checked the corridor before stepping out. It was mostly clear. He passed the other interview rooms and holstered his pistol. He matched a passing officer’s stride and received a strange glance. His uniform was mostly dry, but his hair was still wet .

  He made it to the south entrance as quickly as possible. Through the front vestibule, he could see a row of patrol cars parked out front. He could steal one and drive it out of the station to Nasira. Or he could if heavily armed officers weren’t walking through the vestibule in jungle camouflage .

  ‘This could be tricky,’ Damien said .

  ‘Almost there,’ Nasira said through gritted teeth. ‘Keep ’em busy .’

  Four officers: two with long-nosed M4 carbines, one with an angular UMP submachine gun and another with a sleek black Remington shotgun. White’s backup had arrived, and they were already raising their weapons. The only advantage Damien had was that he was still hugging the wall on the side and they were focused ahead. These officers weren’t like White, they were special-operations trained and wouldn’t be as easily subdued .

  Damien reached for a fire extinguisher on the wall beside him and pulled the pin. The nearest officer turned and saw him. Damien squeezed the fire extinguisher’s handle and doused him in a thick cloud that obscured all four officers. It effectively blinded them, but wouldn’t last long. Damien lifted the fire extinguisher from the wall and moved into the cloud, swinging it like a club. The extinguisher caught the shotgun officer in the stomach and cracked his ribs. The shotgun dropped to the floor and Damien kicked it away. A carbine-wielding officer slipped on it. Damien closed on that officer and slammed the extinguisher down onto the carbine, then sprayed carbon dioxide into his face, coating his goggles and freezing his lips. He dropped .

  Two down, two to go .

  The cloud dispersed quickly. The officer wielding the UMP retreated for a better shot. Damien hurled the empty extinguisher at the UMP officer. It struck him, but not heavily enough to knock him over .

  Damien closed on the other carbine officer and grasped the rail of his weapon. He lifted the stock up, catching the officer in the chin. Using the carbine’s sling, Damien pulled him forward by his neck, right into Damien’s knee. The officer stumbled and rolled across the linoleum floor .

  That left the UMP officer. He was out of reach, somewhere in the fading cloud of carbon dioxide. Damien had nothing but a holstered pistol and stun gun. That lingering officer poked his barrel through the cloud. Damien drew his stun gun and fired. The electrode darts hit the officer and punctured both sides of his nose. He collapsed, writhing and jittering .

  The UMP officer was standing nearby so Damien moved quickly around him. The conductive wires wrapped around the officer’s legs and sent him tumbling onto his face. Damien discarded the stun gun and reached for the —

  ‘Don’t move !’

  At the edge of his vision, Damien noticed a new group of special forces officers training their weapons on him. He had nowhere to run and nothing to use. The UMP submachine gun lay promisingly close but still too far .

  Following their orders, Damien raised his arms high in the air and lowered himself to his knees. The officers moved behind him in a loose semi-circle. One officer moved closer, but not close enough to endanger himself .

  ‘On the ground!’ he shouted .

  Damien did as instructed .

  An explosion detonated behind them. Damien felt a wave of heat roll over him as the standing officers were knocked from their feet. Glass blasted inward from the vestibule, lacerating the officers, and sending the officer issuing instructions right into Damien. They collided and tumbled together across the floor. The officer came to rest half lying on top of him, but the UMP was almost in reach. Now was his chance .

  Damien wriggled out from under the dazed officer and collected the UMP, then quickly crawled behind a transaction booth. Rounds cracked on the glass, but the glass didn’t break. Damien crouched, noticing the tiny speaking hole in the center .

  That will do nicely , he thought .

  He checked the long magazine that protruded from under the UMP—it was still full. Safety off, cocked, round in the chamber .

  He jumped to his feet and poked the stubby barrel through the hole, then peppered the officers with rounds. Three dropped. A fourth was quick enough to circle around the bullet-resistant glass and take aim at his side. Damien withdrew his UMP from the glass hole, or tried to. A protruding lip under the barrel kept it stuck in place .

  The vestibule door exploded behind the officer, kicking out another spray of glass. A border control 4x4 crashed through the processing center as the officer rolled to one side, just clear of the impact. Still holding the trapped UMP with his left hand, Damien drew the subcompact pistol with his right and stared down its three-dot sights. He squeezed the heavy trigger and fired his last four rounds into the officer. Then he jiggled the UMP, pried it from the glass, holstered his pistol and aimed the submachine gun .

  Behind the wheel of the 4x4, he could see Nasira, eyes narrowed with concentration. Her copper skin was shiny with sweat and her dark coiled hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She held the steering wheel with one hand and changed gears with her pistol hand .

  ‘Get your goddamn ass moving!’ she yelled, taking aim at an officer .

  Damien saw the officers sprinting into the processing center. He ran from the booth, firing on the move, and jumped into the passenger’s seat. Nasira was already in reverse, grazing nearby parked vehicles. She blasted her way through the parking lot .

  The officers appeared in front of them. Damien aimed and fired, punching holes through the windshield. He saw another vehicle just before it rammed into the 4x4’s side. The door crumpled but held .

  Nasira pulled hard on the wheel, moving with the impact and spinning their vehicle around. She rammed the stick to second, peeled from the intercepting vehicle and accelerated for a set of reinforced steel gates. They were open, but that was changing now that someone was closing them. Nasira changed gears and pushed the 4x4 harder .

  ‘Watch this,’ she said .

  He double-checked his seatbelt. ‘I’d rather not .’

  Nasira’s foot was to the floor and even if he wrestled th
e wheel from her, she wasn’t about to slow down. The gates were already half closed. They were committed .

  In the side mirror, Damien saw two 4x4s hurtling from the parking lot and accelerating toward them. He dumped his UMP in the footwell and pinned it with his shoe .

  Nasira aimed for the gap between the closing gates and punched through. The side mirror popped off and the gates scraped the doors, ripping their rear bumper off. But they made it. Damien looked behind and saw the pursuing vehicles pull up short .

  ‘Holy crap,’ Damien said .

  He patted himself down, checking for wounds. As Nasira steered the 4x4 into a bus depot, weaving around buses, he looked over at her and was relieved to see she wasn’t bleeding. She whipped the 4x4 onto the southbound and floored it again .

  ‘Have to say it, we are kicking ass,’ Nasira said. ‘Or we might be once we catch up to the bus again.’ She shot him a sidelong glance. ‘You good ?’

  Damien saluted her. ‘Border control officer, at your service .’

  ‘Fucked up border control officer,’ she said. ‘Bleeding all over my upholstery .’

  He looked down at his blood-stained seat. ‘It’s not your upholstery .’

  Nasira focused on the road ahead. ‘Doesn’t matter .’

  He loaded a new mag into his pistol and flipped the mirror under his sun visor. His face was covered in blood. Once he saw it, the pain kicked in. He stung all over from shattered glass .

  At least Nasira didn’t look injured. There was no blood or lacerations across her face or limbs. Only sweat. He saw the muscles shift in her arms as she weaved between traffic .

  Damien had to admit, he felt slightly embarrassed that he needed to be extracted like this. All it took was one minor complication for everything to go to hell. Those nutjob officers with white armbands had derailed everything. He wanted to explain to Nasira but he knew that would make it worse. He kept things simple, the way she liked it .

  ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said .

  ‘You got the tracker on the bus, that’s all that matters,’ Nasira said. ‘Now we just follow it and find Jay .’