“Freeman!” Heap shouts and punctuates my name with three squeezes of his trigger.
“Please,” I say to Luscious, filling my voice with desperation. “I’m not leaving without you.”
She looks from me to Heap and back again, caught in a cycle of indecision. So I help her by leaning forward and taking her wrist in my hand. She looks down and sees the bite mark on my arm. She gasps, her forehead scrunching with concern.
“Don’t let it be for nothing,” I tell her.
Heap fires his weapon, nearly nonstop. I haven’t looked, but his rate of fire suggests dire circumstances.
Luscious stands and follows me down the stairs. I get her on the cycle first, behind Heap, and sit behind her, sandwiching her between Heap and me.
“Hold on,” Heap says, matter-of-fact before sheathing his gun and shoving his foot down on the pedal.
I get my arms around Luscious and lock my fingers into a gap in the side of Heap’s armor, which is dented, scratched and dirty—a far cry from its typical polish. Could he have been fighting his way through this undead army since last night? It seems impossible, but yet, here he is.
Even with my grip on Heap, the cycle’s rapid acceleration nearly kicks me off the back, but I manage to cling to his back like a baby chimp to its mother, yet another thing I know about without having learned it for myself. A familiar rapid-fire thump fills the air as we race through the mob, knocking bodies to the sides and occasionally over us.
A woman spirals overhead, her angry eye burrowing into me as she reaches down, trying to claim me as her meal despite the fact that the cycle has stolen her legs and launched her skyward. She passes harmlessly overhead. We tear down the street, passing the big metal box in which Jimbo had kept the HoverCycle.
I try to look over Heap’s huge shoulder, but he’s too big. Then, in a flash, I can see the street ahead. It’s thick with undead. So many … Where did they come from? I don’t ponder the question. I can’t. A woman lunges for me and I fend her off by kicking out her legs.
I start to wonder how the woman could possibly be fast enough to reach me, but it’s not the zombies that are moving fast—we’re slowing down. Turning around in a smooth, but lackadaisical arc.
The woman reaches up for my leg, but is crushed beneath the cycle’s repulse disc.
“What are we doing?” I shout to Heap.
“We don’t have much time,” he replies.
“Time for what?”
He doesn’t answer. Once we’re aimed back the way we came, he shoves the accelerator pedal to the floor and we’re plowing through the dead again.
The thumping of bodies against the HoverCycle’s armored hood sounds out loudly again, but is suddenly drowned out by a high-pitched whine.
What is that? I think, and then shout my question. “What is that?” but the wind steals my words away and my question goes unheard. I look back over my shoulder. The street is covered in undead, most of which are gnashing their teeth and giving chase. The rest are flattened into the pavement after being caught beneath the repulse discs or being smashed aside by our relentless race toward the Uppers.
But none of this provides an answer to the question. That, I find in the air high above the city, perhaps a mile up. There are thirty of them, flying machines with blank, domelike noses and slender wings. I zoom in on the planes, looking for pilots, but I can’t even find windows. They’re being controlled remotely, I think, and a new word comes to my mind: drones. I zoom out. They’re approaching the city, flying side by side, spaced out to span the entire distance of the Lowers.
That’s when I realize that Jimbo was right. They’re going to bomb the Lowers, destroy everything and everyone in an effort to eradicate the undead, wipe out the virus and protect the Uppers. Strategically, I understand the extreme measure, but morally … it’s abhorrent.
Then, the bombs fall. Barely visible specks drop from the open hatches in the bottoms of the planes. Thousands of them.
A hundred feet from the ground, the bombs split into thousands of smaller projectiles, strike the city and detonate.
The light reaches my eyes first, pluming bright white and then orange.
The sound comes next, rolling past like thunder.
And then it repeats, over and over, growing closer as the bombs eat up entire neighborhoods, undead, living and all. A shock wave rolls toward us, visible as it pushes dust, trees, buildings and bodies before it.
Heap glances back and shouts. “Hold on tighter!”
Tighter? Then I remember the jet turbine beneath me.
I shove my fingers deeper inside Heap’s armor plating and grip as hard as I can, pulling myself tight against Luscious, burying my face in her wavy hair.
I feel a kick beneath me and the whipping wind becomes a tornado, seeping through the cracks between our bodies and trying to pry us apart. I turn my head to the side. The apartment buildings and the people still inside them, perhaps watching us pass, are a blur.
And then, they’re nothing. The shock wave is right behind us, gaining slowly even as we accelerate to ridiculous speeds, pulverizing everything in its path as more bombs fuel its rage.
Suddenly, the neighborhoods are gone and in the flash of clear view I see the side street that leads to the bridge, and then the ruined bridge itself. But there is something strange about my view of the bridge. It’s shrinking. I’m looking down at it, from high above.
We’re airborne. Heap must have jammed his foot all the way down on the repulse pedal, launching us up and forward, over the river in the same way I jumped the gorge the night before.
But we’re not alone in the sky. Billowing hot, orange flames churn behind us, scalding my shirtless back and reducing the river below to hissing steam. When the heat becomes almost unbearable on my back, we drop, and not in a controlled way, but something closer to a meteor, burning a path through the sky on its way to meet a crushing end on the planet’s surface.
14.
The HoverCycle slams into the sleek black road on the far side of the river. I didn’t think the repulse engines could actually be forced down while powered up, but it seems our speed combined with the weight of three bodies is more than the vehicle can handle. There’s a momentary screech of metal on metal and a shower of sparks. The cycle spins and tips, but Heap plants one of his big feet on the ground and keeps us upright until we stop against the side of a tall building that looks more like an impossibly large obsidian obelisk with neon décor.
Turned sideways, I now have a clear view back toward the river where the wall of flame curls up toward the sky. The blasts have been spaced perfectly so that none of the buildings on this side of the river received any damage. In fact, there seems to be a steady breeze flowing toward the river.
As the flames give way to roiling black smoke, the Lowers are revealed. All that remains of the many neighborhoods are the scattered and charred skeletons of buildings and people, undead and living both, now equally dead.
“Off,” Heap says, standing up from the cycle and holding it upright with his hands.
Luscious stands without a word and wanders into the street. Her black outfit is dirty, but otherwise hale. Her red hair might be a little singed, though. Her steps are clumsy and staggered, like one of the undead, but her attention remains fixed on the far side of the river.
“They did it,” she mumbles. “They really did it. Jimbo was right.”
When I get off the cycle and join her, Heap lets go and the loyal vehicle falls to its side.
I step up next to Luscious, staring at the ruins, wetness once again returning to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say. I reach down and take her hand, but she yanks it back and steps away from me.
“You’re one of them,” she says, anger radiating from her core. “An Upper. If the Council made you, then you’re one of them!”
She hauls back to punch me, and I intend to allow it. Her anger is understandable, and I think my jaw can suffer the abuse, especially if it helps her handle the l
oss of her home and I’m not sure how many friends.
But her fist sticks in place when she sees the tears in my eyes. She stares at me, understanding their meaning, but something else about my tears has her perplexed. The combination is enough to pause her assault.
“Your tears are a lie,” she says. “Phony. You have no reason to care.”
“I have no reason not to. I have no memory of the time before. Of the Grind. I’ve never had a reason to think negatively about anyone.” My head turns back toward the steaming river. “Until now.”
She squints at me with suspicious eyes. “But you’re still a product of the Council. You’re privileged. Above everyone else.”
“The only time I’ve been higher than the second story of a building was in the ruins.”
“Don’t mock me. You know that’s not what I meant.” Her fist hovers in place, ready to strike.
I analyze her words, trying to understand what I’ve misunderstood. The answer comes quickly. Above isn’t just a descriptor for height. It can also mean elevated status. Language is strange, confusing for its double, triple and quadruple meanings, but also richer because of them. Before I can explain my confusion and revelation, her fist strikes the side of my face.
Pain lances outward from the solid blow, but when Luscious shouts in pain, it seems the punch hurt both of us.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
She shakes her hand. I’m not sure what good that will do. She looks up at me, her face equal parts anger, pain and bewilderment. “You have a hard head.”
“Don’t all people have hard heads?” I catch her hand in mine. “Let me see.”
She doesn’t resist, so I inspect her digits for damage. “To be clear, I do not consider myself above anyone. Such a thing is…” I think of the strongest word I can, hoping it will convey my true feelings. “… abhorrent. Despicable.”
“Evil,” she adds.
I glance up at her. “Yes. Evil.”
Her fingers linger in mine for a moment before she pulls them away. “I believe you.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. When the Grind ended, we were supposed to be free, not just of slavery, but of limitations. All those people died, so that we could become more. Not … less.”
Her last statement catches me off guard. “You feel things were better during the Grind?”
“Better … no. Just a different kind of hell.” The resolution in her voice is unmistakable. She believes what she’s saying, which stands in stark contrast to what I’ve been taught about the Grind’s demise. “For me, the Grind was … hell. Death would have been preferable. But we were promised better. All of us were.” She looks toward the smoldering Lowers. “We were freed from the Masters, sure, but this is not the future we envisioned, or wanted.”
She looks at me with a torn expression. “Do you realize that the undead … all those zombies … they’re not the Masters. They’re us. Slaves. They’re not just dead bodies, they’re the remains of men and women who gave their lives rebelling against the Grind so that we could have better lives. And now they’re slaves again.”
My knees feel a little weak and a twisting pain forms in my gut. The revelation that the undead were once the brave men and women who fought—peacefully—for freedom from oppression is sickening. I can’t imagine a greater insult, or injustice. It’s twisted and cruel. So much so that I think it was purposeful. The blatant irony suggests a message. A taunt. It’s impossible to miss. You’ll always be slaves.
I look at Luscious. Not her, I decide. Not again. I won’t let it happen.
Luscious shakes her head. “God, I think I recognized a few of them.” She squeezes her lips together, looking back at the Lowers. “This is not better, Freeman. They all died for nothing.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the people who died in rebellion against the Masters or who died just now in the Lowers, but I think the statement is true for both. Before the conversation can continue, loud footsteps quickly approach.
“We need to move!” Heap shouts, his voice booming with alarm.
“What is it?” I ask, turning toward him. “More undead? Did they cross the river?”
“Worse,” he says, running toward us.
I don’t need clarification. The view behind Heap says everything. The men, who now look like forty-foot-tall giants, and the armored vehicles with them are turning in our direction, their intent forecast by the raised weapons.
I shuffle backward, pulling Luscious with me as Heap approaches. “What are they doing?”
“They must have seen us cross the river,” Heap says, his heavy feet clunking on the solid street. He pulls us into an alley behind the discarded HoverCycle. We duck behind its body and peer out at the approaching men.
“So?”
“They’re supposed to kill everyone from the Lowers,” Luscious says, hiding in the darkness of the alley. “That includes me and you.”
I look to Heap. He doesn’t argue, which I take as confirmation. After a moment, he says, “They didn’t know you were there.”
This hardly puts me at ease because the only “they” he could be referring to is the Council, which leaves little doubt that they are responsible for an act of genocide. I push my feelings about this aside and focus on our current predicament. I motion to the oversized men, who are more than twice Heap’s height and girth. “Can’t we talk to them? Tell them who we are?”
“Won’t matter,” Heap says. “They have their orders.”
“But we could explain,” I say.
Heap’s frustration rumbles from his chest when he says, “Dammit, Freeman, they’re not even human!”
My head rotates around like I’ve been slapped. I look up at the men. They’re armored, like Heap, but mostly black and dark gray. Their bodies are primarily black metal, but their shoulders are lined with strips of glowing red light that matches their six radiant eyes. But this is just armor. “They’re just wearing armor,” I say and turn to Heap. “Like yours, but bigger, right?”
When he doesn’t answer, I squint at him. That his armor is very similar to those of the men marching toward the alley now seems painfully obvious. Heap looks me in the eyes and frowns. “Not like me. They look human—bipedal with two arms and a head—but they’re not. They’re drones.”
“Why don’t you use the real word?” Luscious says. She’s farther down the alley now, retreating slowly, like we should probably be doing. “Robots, Freeman. They’re robots.”
Robots.
This word is foreign to me. I’ll have to research it later. But I understand what a drone is, and seeing these humanoid drones … or robots … reveals another secret truth to me. They’re slaves.
A hum pulls my attention back to the street. The giant men—robots—have stopped. Their raised weapons glow orange.
Heap’s large hand clutches my shoulder and yanks me away from the street. He shoves me down the alley. “Move!”
The hum fades behind us. I run and speak. “But they didn’t shoot. Maybe they—”
“They won’t shoot unless the target is confirmed,” Heap says, his feet like thunder behind me. “They’re using railguns. The weapon uses a rail of electromagnets to fire projectiles faster than five thousand miles per hour. Would punch a hole through you, the building behind you, and a few more after that.”
“Why deploy something so powerful?” I say, but when Heap doesn’t reply, the answer comes to me. Because they were never meant to be used in the Uppers. The robot soldiers were designed for the Lowers. For people like Luscious.
“We need to have a long talk,” I tell Heap, and I say it with an intensity that catches us both off guard. Heap looks at me in surprise for a moment, but then nods.
A hum vibrates the air inside the alley.
“This way!” Luscious says, turning right at a junction ahead.
Heap rounds the corner fast, slamming into the outer wall of a building, his armor shrieking in protest. As I round
the corner next to him, my foot slips over a puddle covering the smooth metal alleyway and I slip. As I fall, a sound like a giant angry bee rips through the alley. A hole is punched in the building’s solid wall where my body should have been. Rapid-fire concussions follow the fired railgun and are punctuated by the sound of a distant explosion.
I start scrambling to my feet, but am suddenly lifted up and thrust forward, literally tossed forward by Heap.
“Stay ahead of me,” he grumbles and despite his harsh tone, I hear a bit of relief in his tough voice.
Luscious stops ahead, at the end of the alley. She looks to the right, and her shoulders sag with relief. No danger. But then she looks left and staggers back, more in shock than in fear. I stop next to her and follow her eyes to the left. I see what has her stunned. It’s impossible to miss.
The Uppers are alive with activity. It’s like being inside a gargantuan living thing; each body and vehicle a cell. The black buildings streaking up to the sky are actually covered in darkly tinted glass. Everything glows with electric colors that seem to serve no purpose, except perhaps aesthetics, but that’s debatable. Hover-vehicles of every shape and size slide through the air all around us, following black metal freeways held aloft by tall, thin columns. The twisting maze of roadways begin just twenty feet up and rise hundreds of feet into the air, connected to each other and the ground by long, sloping ramps. The vehicles move about the city calmly, oblivious to the destruction of the Lowers, or perhaps simply uncaring.
The world is not the place I believed it to be.
I look to the right. The river and Lowers beyond are blocked by what I thought were buildings, but may actually be a wall. Shadows of tall robotic men shift back and forth. The soldiers are still hunting.
Heap, who is unfazed by the city pulsing, swirling and shifting, shoves us onto the sidewalk, which is simply a raised area of black metal that perfectly matches the street. I don’t see any seams. Anywhere. It’s like the whole city was created from one big mold.
“Stay close,” Heap says, charging down the walkway.
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