His body remains locked and ready for action, but his head turns toward me. Again, the slightest bit of emotion emerges on his face—confusion. He doesn’t know what to do, and although I cannot fathom a man like Heap not being single-minded at all times, he’s frozen with indecision.
With the realization that I am inadvertently confining Heap’s true nature and desires comes the revelation that him protecting me against my will is also an act of slavery. While I would never admit to this—Heap is my friend—I cannot, in accordance with the First Law, allow our relationship to continue under the same constraints that it has since we were paired.
“You’re not a slave,” I repeat, “and neither am I.”
With a strength and quickness that I doubt Heap knew I possessed, I yank my hand from his grasp, take two vaulting steps toward the building’s precipice—
Ten seconds …
—and jump.
3.
The rusted fire escape stairs mounted on the side of the building rattle, as I drop hard onto the landing ten feet below the roof. My weight and the jarring impact pulls two bolts from the old bricks, and the whole platform cants to the side. I stand still, waiting for the stairs to settle and calculating the distance to a nearby pine tree in case I have to jump. I think I can make it, but there is no need. The rest of the old fire escape stays firmly rooted in the ceramic bricks.
“Freeman!” Heap shouts my name, leaning over the roof’s edge. Concrete crumbles beneath his grasp. His sudden appearance and booming voice nearly make me fall over the railing, but I catch myself and move to the stairs.
“No time,” I tell him, descending the first flight with a single bound, stressing the stairwell further. I glance up and catch sight of Heap’s face. I can see he’s considering jumping down after me, but it’s clear his girth would be the fire escape’s undoing.
I leap down another flight spurred faster by the worry that Heap might follow me down. But he doesn’t. Instead, my protector just grunts. When I look up again, he’s gone, no doubt rushing toward the building’s interior, and much sturdier, stairwell.
I drop down to the next level, take two steps and jump again. Jump. Clang. Jump. Clang. I repeat this eight more times, and the staircase decides to relinquish its hold on the building. There’s a groan from above, followed by the sharp report of snapping metal. I leap again, bringing me to within fifteen feet of the ground where cracked pavement has given way to sprouting vegetation.
A staccato pop draws my eyes up, and I see the stairs tearing away from the building, one level at a time, moving slowly yet steadily toward the ground, and me. I look to the ground, judging the distance again, and the time it would take me to leap, roll and dive clear. But the fire escape has other plans. When half of the case comes free, the bolts of the lower stairs tear from the wall.
Without spending another fraction of a second considering my options, I heft myself over the railing and drop toward the ground. Unfortunately, gravity pulls the staircase down at the same speed it does me.
I land hard, absorbing the impact by bending my knees and rolling in one fluid motion, something I’ve never done before, but manage to perform like I’ve trained for this moment.
The staircase slams into the ground behind me with a grinding boom. I spin around in time to see the towering fire escape crumple, stop and topple toward me. I stumble backward, tripping over myself, and sprawl to the ground.
Luckily, I’ve sprawled clear of the twisting metal. The lower half of the staircase crushes the ground where I stood just a moment ago. The top half topples into a tall pine, gouging its bark and leaving a long, pale scar in its wake.
There is no time to consider how close I came to accidentally discontinuing myself. A fresh cry tears through the forest. The voice is the same, but it no longer pleads for help. It’s shrieking now. In pain.
Thirty seconds has come and gone.
I jump to my feet and dash into the dark forest, sprinting as fast as I can. I activate all visual spectrums in my upgrade and navigate through the trees as easily as I could in broad daylight, aiming for the electromagnetic pulses generated by the five people.
They’re no longer running. In fact, it’s hard to distinguish one from the other. They’re all jumbled up.
What are they doing? I wonder, cutting the distance to them in half.
The man screeches again, shrill and panicked.
My insides flutter with something I don’t understand. The best word I can think of to describe it is instinct. And it’s telling me to run—the other way. Self-preservation is a powerful emotion, but my conviction that people should not suffer stands its equal. I don’t know if I can help, but I have to try. But that’s not the only thing compelling me forward. I have to understand. The one and only job I have right now is to learn. To absorb. And this is the strangest thing I have yet to encounter during all my time with the Council, or with Heap.
I look back for my guardian, but find no sign of him.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I am free, after all. Even my name says so. If this is a mistake, it is mine to make. How can I learn if I am unable to make errors?
I cover the rest of the ground in the time it takes me to ruminate over my decision to leave Heap behind. I slow as I approach the group of four electromagnetic signatures.
Four.
One is missing.
Not missing, I realize. Discontinued. Dead.
They’ve killed him!
“What have you done?” I say, stepping into a clearing at the edge of the pine forest. The three men and one woman, now in clear sight, are leaning over the prone body of the fifth man whose tortured voice has been silenced. Tall grass lies flattened around them, now stained by the man’s fluids.
Instinct roars inside me, screaming at me to run. But my mind remains locked on the image of this dead man and his four killers, whose heads slowly pivot toward me.
They move with jittery spasms, as though not fully in control of their bodies, or perhaps not able to understand how to work their muscles and joints. Infrared reveals that they’re hot. Burning up. They should probably be dead, too, but they’re not.
As they turn their heads toward me, the first thing I see is their eyes. They’re as vacant and lifeless as the man lying beneath them. And yet they can see me.
One of them groans, and I see a tendril of skin hanging from his mouth.
Skin.
The dead man’s skin!
They’re eating him. But why? People don’t eat—
The man lunges, but falls on his face, flattening more of the tall grass. I take a step back, but the instinct to run still hasn’t overcome my curiosity.
He crawls toward me, dragging himself over the ground. The other three stand slowly behind him, finding their feet before they, too, come for me. I step back again and logic settles in. These people are cannibals. I can’t fathom why, but they were eating that man, and the sinister expressions twisting their faces leave little doubt that I am next.
But then something happens.
The fifth electromagnetic signature blooms back to life. But it’s not the same. It’s … different. The dead man is no longer dead … but he’s not really alive. That’s when I notice that his signature matches those of the four people now closing in. All five of them are dead. But not.
The closest man, whose body I now see is torn apart and leaking something white, reaches out for me and I run.
Into a tree.
Panic, I now know, makes me clumsy. I fall to the ground, not really hurt, but no longer mobile. The shredded man on the ground catches hold of my foot and pulls himself closer. His mouth drops open as he leans over me with a satisfied groan.
I’m about to let out a scream, and for a brief moment I wonder if I will sound like the mating raccoons. But before any sound comes from my mouth or the man can bite into my flesh, he’s yanked up into the air and tossed aside.
My head spins to the side and I find my rescuer—my protec
tor—Heap. He looks poised for action and more alive than I’ve ever seen him before. Remembering the man clutching my foot, I kick him in the face hard, then scramble back, pushing myself against the tree that knocked me down and climb back to my feet.
“This is why you should listen to me,” Heap says, his voice oozing authority and anger.
“Is this also why you have that?” I ask, motioning to the weapon already in his hand.
“It’s called a gun,” he says, then aims it toward the man still clawing his way to my feet. The weapon explodes with power and noise that makes me jump. Faster than I can discern, the man’s head folds in on itself and the dead becomes dead again.
But the weapon acts as a catalyst and the others charge. Heap kicks his big foot into the woman’s gut, sending her flying back into the grass. He shoots one of the two charging men, dropping him to the ground. Heap sidesteps the second man, allowing him to pass before shooting him in the head as well.
The woman in the grass stands with an angry wail. She reaches out for Heap, jaws agape, and streaks toward him. He fires a fourth time and the woman falls to the ground.
While I’m thankful that Heap rescued me, I don’t miss the fact that he killed these four people without hesitation and with surprising efficiency. Four shots, four dead. It’s not as bad as cannibalism, but it’s still frightening … and curious. Who is Heap? And why haven’t I met any other people like him?
Ignoring me, Heap wanders over to the dead man. I find myself following him, but standing a few feet back.
“Why did they kill this man?” I ask.
Heap answers coolly. “I don’t know.” If he’s feeling any fear, I can’t tell.
“Why were they eating him?”
“I don’t know.”
The no-longer-dead man’s foot twitches. His eyes open. He turns to Heap, opens his mouth and tries to bite him.
Heap takes a step back, aims and fires his weapon—his gun—again. Five shots. Five dead.
Again.
Part of me wants to inspect these bodies and find out what happened to make them go insane, but my revulsion is rising with every second I’m no longer in danger. I can smell their insides.
“Heap,” I say, desiring to leave more than anything I have desired before.
He raises his hand to me, palm out, requesting silence like only he can. He turns his head to the side slowly. I’ve seen him do this before. He’s listening. Before I can focus on my hearing, Heap says, “The field.”
I turn toward the wall of three-foot-tall grass. It’s unremarkable, even to someone who only just recently began experiencing the outside world. “What about it?”
“Did you scan it?”
“No, but—”
“Do it! Now!”
I turn my eyes to the field, looking from side to side in every spectrum. I see the first person a hundred feet away, waist deep in the tall grass. The second is just a few feet farther. Then I see more of them. A lot more.
I step away from the field, slowly moving back toward the trees.
“How many?” Heap asks.
“I’m not sure.” I stopped counting at seventy-five. “More than a hundred.”
“All the same?” he asks, looking down at the people he killed.
I already confirmed they had the same electromagnetic signature, so I just nod. “They’re coming this way.”
“How much time do we have?”
I look up, surprised I hadn’t figured that out. I turn to the field, find the nearest figure again and gasp. “Thirty seconds.”
4.
“Run,” Heap says, eyes on the field.
“What?” I’m confused, mostly because Heap doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. He’s in a wide stance, looking over the top of his gun, which is pointed at the field.
Twenty-five seconds.
He glances at me and shouts. “Run!”
“I can’t leave without you,” I say, panic rising.
Twenty seconds.
“Freeman, you’re faster and stronger than me. Smarter, too. And you have every upgrade I can think of and probably a few we don’t even know about. I’ll just slow you down. My job is to protect you. Right now, that means—” He looks forward for just a fraction of a second and pulls the trigger. The explosion of light from the weapon’s barrel illuminates the closest man as he crumples to the ground. “—you need to leave me behind. Get to the city. Get lost.”
I just look up at him, unsure if this is some kind of joke. I’ve never been without the big man, and I’ve only seen the city from a distance.
He fires another shot, dropping a dead woman to the ground.
The mob is getting closer.
Thirty seconds has passed.
“This is your chance, Freeman,” Heap says. “Find out who you will be. You’re free.”
With those words, I understand exactly what he’s offering me. As I suspected, I’ve been somewhat captive. A slave. Free to explore and learn, but only if the subjects and locations were approved by the Council. Heap might be here for my protection, but he’s also here to control me and filter my interactions with the world.
My flight isn’t just about surviving. It’s about living—really living—for the first time.
So I run.
I don’t say good-bye.
I don’t look back.
I just … run.
Five seconds into my mad sprint, Heap’s weapon shatters the silent forest. Then again and again. If his accuracy hasn’t changed since I left him, he’s killed seventeen more. There’s a pause in the firing, then a string of three quick shots. They sound rushed, and the change makes me worried for my friend.
My only friend.
I stop and look back through the forest, focusing on the electromagnetic spectrum. There is a wall of dead. And then Heap. Still alive, but running. For a moment, I hope that he’ll be joining me soon, but then I note his direction. He’s leading them away from me.
I’m so focused on Heap’s flight that I nearly miss the sound of a foot scraping through the dry pine needles carpeting the forest floor. When the sound finally does register, and I spin around, it’s nearly too late. A second mob of discontinued stagger through the trees, dead eyes on me. Despite being dead, there is something very much alive in their gaze, like the hunger I’ve seen in the eyes of wolves.
I’m prey, I realize, stumbling back away from the nearest man. I scan the trees around me. They’re everywhere!
With a groan, the man lunges at me. I jump to the side, my mind flooded with so many courses of action that I can’t decide what to do. There are so many unknown variables that success isn’t guaranteed, no matter what choice I make. The wolves return to my mind. I spent a day watching them with Heap. They chased rabbits through the woods, working as a pack, like these people surrounding me. But they were only successful 30 percent of the time.
Why?
Because the rabbit moved quickly and erratically, I think.
Without any better idea, I run again, moving through the horde as fast as I can, bouncing back and forth, aiming one direction and moving the other, and doing my best to steer clear of their reaching arms.
The dead stagger when I turn, unable to maneuver as quickly. They run into each other and collide with trees, but there are so many of them, all of my running simply returns me to the same predicament I found myself in just seconds before. The cycle will continue indefinitely if I don’t pick a direction.
The building, I think. Heap’s HoverCycle is still on the roof. I’ve never operated it before, or any vehicle, but I have a working knowledge of how machines function.
I find the building’s cool flat surface in the darkness, duck beneath a pair of hands with fingers hooked like talons and dash toward the building, weaving, leaping and spinning my way past a wall of people who want to eat me. Once clear, I run hard and fast, but the dead give chase. They’re not quite as spry, but they’re not slowed by indecision, either.
An a
valanche of humanity closes in on either side, like a zipper composed of bodies, filling in the space behind me. I clear the trees and nearly impale myself on the twisted wreck of the fire escape, but manage to spin around it. The dead woman diving at my back is too committed and too clumsy to dodge the jagged rail. As I turn away, I see the rusty metal impale her at the waist. But instead of remaining stuck, she wrenches her body away from the bar, tearing a gaping hole in her side. The entire incident delays her by a few seconds.
These people, these things, are either incapable of feeling pain or are too mad to be bothered by it. The ruined states of their bodies, aged and decayed as they are, suggests the latter. If they could feel the state of their bodies, mad or not, the pain would be incapacitating.
The wave of people closes in as I rush along the side of the building, and for a moment, I’m glad Heap isn’t here. I’d be embarrassed by the frightened cries rising from my mouth. I sound nothing like the raccoons.
A man lunges, passing just behind me, slamming his head into the redbrick wall. His rotted skull folds in, crushing the fragile mind within. He slumps to the ground, tripping up the dead around him, who stumble and flail. Suddenly the lot of them is falling over themselves, sprawling face down to the ground. I pull ahead, rounding the corner onto what once was the small town’s main street. The pavement is mostly hidden by grass now, but the lines of tall buildings remain, along with the ruined husks of vehicles that Heap told me were called “cars” and “trucks” during the time of the Masters. But the rotting and sun-bleached transports aren’t the only corpses lining the streets.
A horde of the living dead turns in my direction. Their bones grind as they move. Their teeth chatter. And their eyes alight at the sight of me. As one, the group closes off the street and draws nearer.
But I’m already where I want to be. I launch myself up the brick building’s eight front stairs, reaching the top in two leaps. I can hear the dead behind me, scratching up the concrete steps. The front door hangs at an angle. Heap must have pulled the top free of the rotting wood when he chased after me. Rather than try to open the door normally, I plant one foot and kick hard with the other. The door tears away from its frame and flies inward. The strength of my kick is surprising, even to me, but I barely notice because the door has struck something that wasn’t there before.
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