by Estes, David
“Just my luck.”
Surprisingly, the guy chuckles. “Just both our luck,” he says. “I can’t let you go, but I can sustain you for a while. Who knows? You might get lucky. Drink. Eat.”
As tired and injured and thirsty and hungry as he is, Michael is still a survivalist. He won’t slip silently into the night. Not without a fight. This time, when the guy presses the bottle to his lips, he parts them and lets the liquid flow into his parched mouth. He drinks slowly, afraid of vomiting it back up if he’s too greedy. He drinks half the bottle, takes a break, and then finishes it off. Next the guy gives him two food pills to crunch, followed by an actual energy bar. The latter is far more satisfying than the pills, and Michael finds himself enjoying the meager meal.
When he’s finished, the guy says, “I’m sorry,” and turns to leave.
“Wait,” Michael says.
The guy stops, but doesn’t turn back around to look at him. “You can’t change my mind.” There’s more shrieking metal, but neither of them seem to notice. They’re nothing more than meaningless sounds.
“I won’t try,” Michael says. “I just wanted to say thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
Now the guy does turn, and his eyes settle on Michael’s. “I hope your end is quick and painless,” he says.
Michael’s about to respond when he sees a dark shadow appear behind the guy. Something metallic glints in the dark.
“Watch out!” he cries as the blade arcs down.
~~~
On her first attempt, Destiny chickened out. She made it all the way to the manhole cover. She even bent down and touched the cold metal with her fingertips, her heart beating like machine gun fire.
And then she stood up straight and walked quickly away, back to her position behind the Dumpster.
Biting back tears, she stared at the empty street for hours, barely registering the occasional Crow car racing by, patrolling the streets. She was ashamed of her weakness, of her fear. Of her desire to live.
What right did she have to fear for her own life? After the deaths she’d caused, her life was nothing. Her life was worth risking if it meant the possibility of eliminating the Destroyer.
And yet…she couldn’t get her feet to move, as if they were pinned in place behind that Dumpster. She barely felt the cold, such was the heat of her shame. She barely felt the aching of her bones, such was the numbness of her regret. The day passed, and so did her fear, fading into the black of night, which seemed to call to her with ghostly wails, as if the blood of those she outlived were begging for her help in carrying out vengeance. As if she was the only one who could bring them sufficient peace to cross over to the next world.
But no, it was only the icy wind whistling between the buildings, no more supernatural than the trash piled around her.
She cried for what seemed like hours, her hot exhalations swarming into the air in ghoulish clouds, until her eyes betrayed her and closed, thrusting her into a fitful sleep.
The sound of metal grinding on stone finally wakes her up to a new day, drenched in white fluffy snow. Her eyes scrape open, locking in on the form emerging from the Destroyer’s lair. He’s carrying a bag, but it appears to be empty, its sides slack. He’s one of the men she saw before. He pauses, staring into the gloom for a few moments, before shaking his head and sliding the metal disk back into place. Destiny watches as he hurries down the street and away, not once looking back.
She’s not scared anymore. Regardless of her own self-loathing, regardless of her own fear of dying, regardless of the horrors of the past or the mysteries of the present or the uncertainty of the future, she knows she’s here for a reason. That reason does not including cowering in the shadows or crying her eyes out, although they may have been a necessary catalyst to what she knows she’s going to do now. Maybe she doesn’t need a purpose to live, or maybe she does and this is it. None of that matters at this particular moment.
Only standing up matters. And she does, as soon as the man is out of sight.
Only taking one step at a time matters. And she does, leaving footprints in the snowy alleyway before reaching the wet, heated street. She shivers, and this time it’s from the cold, not the paralyzing fear that tries to worm its way into her bones. No, fear is no longer her master, and never will be again.
When she reaches the manhole cover, she steels herself once more, refusing to back down. She grabs the handle and pulls, straining against the weight, which seems heavier than a sack of bricks. Her muscles are cold and numb and weak, and for a moment she thinks she won’t have the strength, but then the metal budges, pulling loose of its fitting. She drags it to the side, cringing when it shrieks, as if announcing her entrance. She knew stealth would be impossible, but she can’t let it stop her. If the Destroyer is injured, it might not matter. She has to hope he is.
Carefully, quietly, she descends into the gloom, her return to this place feeling like a waking nightmare. She doesn’t bother to replace the manhole cover. If she does make it out alive, she’ll likely be in a hurry, and she doesn’t know if she’ll have the strength to lift it again.
To mask her approach and avoid the clamor of taking the ladder, she activates her hoverskates, letting them gradually float her to the ground. She hears voices, but they’re distant and muffled. The other guy and the Destroyer? Her hopes of finding the cyborg unconscious disappear, but still she pushes on, sliding noiselessly down the set of steps, her feet hovering inches off the stone.
The voices clarify, but the words they speak don’t seem to carry any meaning as she stalks closer. Remembering the knife in her waistband, she draws it, ignoring the trembling in her fingers as she grips the cold handle.
Lights flash from a doorway to the right, and she remembers seeing the dark, sealed door when she and Harrison fled from the Destroyer. It’s ajar now, a conversation spilling out into the hall. She sees a shadowy form standing over a prisoner strapped to a chair. A prisoner like she had been. Like Harrison.
It doesn’t matter who it is, only that this person needs her help. Perhaps this is her purpose, the reason she’s been spared up until this moment.
In a rush, she flies forward, raising the knife.
The prisoner screams a warning, which doesn’t make sense—why would the prisoner be warning his captor?—but she has too much to lose, is too determined to strike. She thrusts the blade downward with all her strength, aiming for her target’s exposed neck. But the warning was effective and he twists away, crying out, her knife sinking sickeningly into his shoulder, stopping halfway to its handle as it meets thick, impenetrable bone. He screams and falls to the side, dropping a flashlight, which skitters away, its glow bouncing several times before settling with dead aim on the prisoner. Destiny’s momentum carries her on top of her victim, pinning him to the ground. He writhes beneath her, not really fighting her, but reacting to the pain of her attack, screaming like a banshee.
She rolls away, weaponless, raising her fists. But the guy, who’s clearly not a cyborg, just continues to groan, curling into the fetal position. Her gaze settles on the prisoner, her eyes widening in shock, her mouth falling open.
“You’re—you’re—”
“Michael Kelly,” Michael Kelly says. “But the bigger question is who the hell are you?”
“I’m—”
“Screwed,” another voice says, and Destiny whirls around to find a gun pointed at her chest. The face behind it is the same one as the guy who she thought had left a few minutes earlier. “Your hands,” he says, and the comment is so strange that she finds herself looking at her hands, as if she’ll find them missing fingers. “Uh, show me your hands,” the guy says. Destiny holds them out awkwardly, trying to figure out what he means. That’s when she notices the way his own hand is trembling, the gun shaking in the air. “I mean, hands where I can see them. Don’t, uh, don’t move. Freeze.” This guy is no killer, Destiny realizes. He’s trying to remember what someone with a gun is supposed to say in a situ
ation like this. He’s not trained—is just winging it.
“She’s just a kid,” Michael Kelly says, his voice surprisingly strong considering the state of his face. Destiny still can’t believe he’s here, that he’s alive. Oh bots…Harrison! He doesn’t know. Benson either. And Janice, oh gosh—sweet, nutty Janice. Her husband is alive. Actually, truly, impossibly alive.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the guy says, his voice strengthening slightly. “But I will if I have to.”
“Oh god, my arm!” the guy on the ground cries. “She stabbed me in the arm.”
“Stay cool,” the guy with the gun says.
“We’re all cool,” Michael says. “You’re in charge, but you don’t have to hurt anyone.”
“I know that!” the guy snaps. His arm wavers even more, and Destiny can’t help but flinch each time the barrel flutters up toward her face.
“Please,” she says. “I was just looking for shelter. I was scared and I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” It’s easier than she expects to get her bottom lip to quiver, adding the perfect touch to her act.
“She attacked me from behind!” the guy on the floor growls.
“Because she was scared,” Michael says. “Just let her go, and she won’t come back. Right…”
“Destiny,” she says. “But I’m not leaving.” Even as the words slip from her lips, she’s amazed that she’s speaking them. Despite the gun pointed at her and the shock of seeing Michael Kelly alive, she feels strength flowing through her limbs, the rush of adrenaline driving her to action.
In one seamless motion, she powers down her hoverskates, letting them dip to the floor, and she pushes off like a sprinter leaving the blocks. Lowering her head, she barrels forward, hearing a raucous gunshot explode so close to her ears it’s deafening. But she doesn’t feel any pain as she collides with the guy, tackling him around the waist, driving him back. She powers on her skates and they propel her up and forwards. The man is screaming and beating on her back with his gun, but there’s little force behind his blows. With a cringe-worthy thud, she smashes him into the far wall, his head cracking off the stone. Breathing heavily, she stops, letting his body slump to the floor, his gun clattering a moment later.
Her entire body tenses as she stares, horrified, at the stranger’s motionless form and the spreading pool of crimson beneath him.
She doesn’t have to check his pulse to know:
He’s dead.
And she killed him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Although Janice’s sons are saying there’s only a chance their dad might still be alive, she knows it’s a certainty. After all, she never felt his supposed death deep in her chest like she expected to. If he was really dead, she would feel it. She knows it.
“What are you thinking, Mom?” Harrison asks her. She realizes that he’s asked the question twice already, and she keeps forgetting to answer, lost in her thoughts. All eyes in the room are on her, and it makes her giggle.
“Like I’m the star of my own holo-show,” she says.
“I mean about Dad,” Harrison clarifies. He takes her hand, kneeling beside the couch. He’s so gentle with her, like he’s afraid her body will shatter the same way her mind has. Benson seems like he wants to come over too, his foot frozen in mid-step but never falling.
“Come here, Son,” she says to him. Tentatively, he pads over, kneeling beside his brother.
“Tell us what you want,” Benson says. “This is your decision.”
She smiles, because she can see her husband in both of her boys, even though they’re wearing someone else’s eyes and hair. Harrison, with his sincerity and impulsiveness. Benson, with his compassion and logical thinking. A part of her is in each of them, too, even if she forgets which part.
“I want my family back together like little mice,” she says. Harrison opens his mouth to speak, and she can guess what he’ll say, but she cuts him off. “But not yet. Not like this. Never again like this.”
Harrison frowns and Benson leans in. “Like what?” Benson asks.
She pops up a finger for each word she speaks. “Running, sad, scared,” she says. “Hunted, hated, illegal.” She said six words but only five fingers are up because she needs her other hand for the sixth and Harrison is still holding it. She squirms her fingers out of his grasp and raises the sixth finger. “Better,” she says.
“But if we get Dad,” Benson says, “then you won’t have to be the key anymore. He can do it. He can save us all.”
“He’s already saved us,” she says, and the way Benson’s eyes go all misty, he knows it, too. “Now we have to save him, but not until we save ourselves.”
Harrison nods. “She’s right, Bense,” he says. “We’ll be walking into a trap. We could die and then that freak will just kill Dad, too.”
Benson looks away from Janice and it almost feels as if half of the sun has burned out. She doesn’t want a life with only one son. She tried that and it didn’t work. A half-life was no way for her to live. “Listen to your brother,” she says to him. “I know he looks like he’s all muscles, but he’s got plenty of brains too.”
“I know he does,” Benson says. “Okay. We’ll save Dad after we’ve completed the mission. But we have to go and get Check and the others now. Jarrod will turn them over to the authorities if they even look at him wrong.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Minda says, finally joining the conversation. Janice had forgotten she was here.
“It’s nonnegotiable,” Benson says. “I won’t lose another friend.” Janice is proud of her son for being stronger than she’s ever seen him. His jaw is stuck out and clenched the way Harrison’s normally is.
Minda says, “Be rational. We’re stretched too thin as it is. They wiped us out.”
“Yeah, because of the mole in your inner circle,” Harrison reminds her.
“I know,” Minda says. “That’s exactly my point. If we’re going to do anything, we need to find BloodyMary and make sure she doesn’t screw up anything else. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s just us.”
“And me,” a deep French-accented voice booms. Simon’s heavy footfalls reverberate down the steps.
Janice almost wants to clap, but she doesn’t want to interrupt things so she just places her palms together and says, “Clap.” Harrison clasps her hands in his, but he still isn’t smiling.
“Welcome back,” Minda says. “But there’s still not enough of us to tackle all of this with only two days before the real mission. Simon and I will go after BloodyMary. The Kellys have to stay here. Stay safe.”
“There’s no such thing as safe,” Benson says.
“He’s right, you know,” Simon says. “We’re no safer here than we are out there.” He motions to the door. “We don’t know the extent of the spy’s treachery. For all we know, she’s already determined our location and is telling them right now. We’re better off on the move. And anyway, if we can’t save our friends, then what’s the point?”
Minda is shaking her head strongly, but she doesn’t rebuff him this time. “So much risk,” she says instead. Janice likes her for her strong eyes and kindness. This room is filled with the best people in the world, and she wonders how it’s possible they found each other.
“Trust me,” Benson says. “Life is a risk. I know from experience.”
Minda finally stops shaking her head, even managing a slight smile, which only makes Janice smile again. Minda’s their leader, and she’s a good one because she listens to what they say, rather than just telling them what to do. “There’s not enough time to go together,” she says. “We’ll have to split up.”
“I’ll go after Check and the others,” Benson says.
“No,” Harrison says. “We’ll need Wire’s help. He’s the only one that I’m able to contact within the Lifers. We need him to locate them.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Benson says. “You just want to take the more dangerous mission. You can’t keep protecting me.”
Harrison raises his hands. “I swear I’m not this time. Think about it. This makes sense.”
“Fine,” Benson says. “But I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Harrison says. “You have to stay with Mom. You have to protect her.”
Janice is watching the exchange between her sons with interest. Every interaction between them is interesting to her, like watching shadows creep or sun setting fire to the horizon. These are the lost moments, suddenly found and reborn. This is their life restarting and unfolding in reverse.
Benson stares at his brother for a moment and then nods. “I see your point. Mom has to stay with Minda, who has to go after BloodyMary.”
“Which means you have to go with them,” Harrison says.
“And I’ll go with Harrison,” Simon says.
Harrison nods. “You have to trust me,” he says. “Simon and I will get them out.”
“I do trust you,” Benson says. Seeing her sons like this leaves Janice feeling incredibly warm inside.
Harrison seems taken aback by Benson’s statement. “Stay safe, Benson. Love you, Mom.” He gives her a huge hug and she kisses his cheek.
“You are half of the good that makes me smile,” she says. “Come back to us.”
“I will,” he says. In that moment, she knows she trusts both her sons with every beat of her heart.
~~~
Geoffrey isn’t as concerned with the how and the why and the details of Gonzo’s death, but he still listens to the conversation between his old friends.
“How the hell did this happen?” Check says. “It makes no sense.” His narrow eyes are dry again, and he’s on his feet, pacing around their bunkroom.
“That’s Gonzo,” Rod says, lying back and staring at the ceiling. “He does random things and no one ever really knows why.” His words are without expression, a monotone utterance of fact.
“I’d say wandering out into the city without telling someone where you’re going when you’re on the botdamn RUSA Most Wanted List is more than just some ‘random thing’,” Check spouts, using angry air quotes to punctuate his statement.