It didn’t take long for John to pedal to where he’d rented a long-term storage shed. Inside was everything that he’d need to get clear of the trouble that he was in. Forged documents, extra cash, disguises, some basic necessities, and an unregistered pistol. He’d paid for the rental for several years in advance, in cash, upfront, with a few extra bills slipped to the manager to make sure that things weren’t disturbed. In this part of town, that wasn’t that unusual. After doing what John had done the past few years, he’d learned that being prepared was a reward in and of itself. Readying everything into a single backpack, John closed and locked the shed for a final time. Time for the hard part: getting away.
The thing about a university is that an abandoned bicycle will get snatched up before the seat has a chance to get cold—and the public transportation will generally take you to the train station if there is one, and the bus depot. Since universities are full of students who know nothing about an area, the public transportation stops are generally plastered with route maps. John sat in the back of the bus, and tried to look as relaxed as possible. He was still partially dehydrated, burnt and cut worse than a piece of roadkill, and coming off a laundry list of drugs that the doctors had pumped into him. He was a bundle of nerves, but did his best to appear disinterested in everything. There were maybe eight people on this thing, and most of them looked almost as beat up as he did. The only two who didn’t were a couple of teenagers more concerned with eating each other’s faces than anything around them. Despite everything, John almost allowed himself to feel good again. Just being around people, normal people, after what he’d been through . . .
He shook himself out of it. The bus was approaching the train station’s stop. No one else was getting off at the stop with him. He shrugged on his backpack and pulled his cap lower over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he made his way off the bus and into the main building. The building had a vaguely Pueblo vibe, like many public buildings in this part of the country. The inside was institutionally clean, but still had the rundown feeling of a place that no one wanted to spend too much time in. John located the ticket counter, and paid for the earliest train that would take him to Kansas. It was scheduled to leave in about two hours. He’d worked out his “grand escape” on the bus ride over. He’d get into Kansas on the train. From there, he’d either hitchhike into Oklahoma, or just stow away on a semi going in the right direction. Same would go for Texas after Oklahoma. From there, John would cross the border into Mexico, and do his best to disappear in South America after that. If anyone was looking for him, they’d figure he’d take the direct route, bus straight down to Las Cruces and from there to Juarez. Juarez really was a war zone, and it would be easy for him to get lost there, so . . . if there was pursuit, his picture would be all over the border guard post by then. The more twists and turns he could put between himself and any pursuit, the better.
After purchasing his ticket, John found a dark corner seat in the waiting room. The seats next to it were either broken or covered in vomit; luckily, the owner of the vomit had probably already been shuffled off. John kept his head low, but made sure that he kept his eyes on everyone. It wasn’t very hard; this early in the morning, there were few people occupying the terminal. Just some custodial staff and a couple of fellow transients. John wanted nothing more than to sleep again, but he was still too keyed up. One thing he did need though, was water. Lots of it. He spent his time waiting by getting water from a machine, and then filling the empty bottle at a nearby water fountain. No telling when he’d get a chance to rehydrate again.
That’s where everything went to hell.
“Hey buddy.”
John turned, slowly. There was a transit cop standing behind him. “Look, buddy, I’ve been watching you for a while. You’ve probably drunk close to a half a gallon of water.” The cop actually looked concerned. “That’s not good, you know?”
“Honestly, I’m fine, officer. If it’s alright with you, I’m just gonna sit and rest for awhile until my train comes in.” John made a show of holding his ticket up, slowly; transit cops at terminals spent a lot of time clearing out drunks and the homeless who would take up space trying to sleep under a roof.
But the cop was shaking his head. “Look, you obviously aren’t from around here. You’re probably sick and don’t know it. Heat exhaustion . . . swine flu . . . diabetes . . . all those things will make you drink like that and the last thing I need is to have to clear you out when you have a seizure or pass out or start vomiting like the Exorcist. Look, come with me to the aid station and we can get you checked out. There’s plenty of time before the train. If you’re ok, no blood, no foul, and if you’re not, we find out before you become a problem.”
John was stuck. If he argued with the cop and made an issue of it, the cop would force the issue. If he ran, he would need to find a new way to get clear of New Mexico. And he certainly was not at the point where he’d kill a cop in cold blood just to save his own hide. “Alright, officer, if ya say so.”
The cop kept up a running monologue about some college kids who’d gotten heat stroke and put the whole station into an uproar. John really wasn’t listening. He was trying to keep track of where possible exits were. His eyes were darting to cameras, exits, obstacles, anything that could be used as a distraction or a weapon.
“Alrighty, here we are. I’m just going to finish a quick check at the front desk, and then we’ll get you sorted out. Just sit tight in here for a few minutes.” The cop smiled, showing John to a seat in front of his desk. John sat quietly, running over his options mentally, looking for a different one. He could still slip out, quiet-like, if he did it now . . .
Four of them came into the room at once, from both doors. They slowly walked in, locking the doors behind them. Four men in identical black suits and sunglasses, all of them in their mid-30s. Walking cliches. Sandman would die to see these guys. John immediately tensed, but stayed seated. The men were all very casual in approaching him, self-assured. Goddamnit! How the hell did they find me so quickly? John was the first to speak. “So.”
“So, John. You left quite a mess, you know. Some very important people spent a lot of time and money on you and the others, and now most of that has gone up in flames. Literally!” It was the shortest of the four men who spoke, a redhead with a severe jaw. He chuckled to himself. “You’re going to come back with us. You suddenly became much more valuable, with the destruction of the Facility. More than valuable enough to overlook everything that happened back there. And, as they say, ‘The Program must go on.’”
“I don’t want any part of it. Not anymore. I’m done, goddamnit.” John stood out of his chair, backing up to the wall. Three of the “suits” thrust a hand into their jackets, obviously going for pistols. The redhead was the only one who didn’t, instead motioning for the others to hold off. “It don’t matter what you offer me, it ain’t enough, and it ain’t ever gonna be enough.”
“John, you’re talking like you have some choice in this matter. You most assuredly don’t. Despite your recent . . . changes, you can’t kill all of us before we kill you.” He walked over in front of John until his face was mere inches in front of John’s. “I’ve read your dossier. You’re good, or you were. Losing it over a skirt? You’ve lost that edge, that focus. Besides, even if you were still good . . . I don’t think you have it in you to kill us.” That same self-assured smirk.
John leaned forward the barest few centimeters, his face betraying no emotion. “I just escaped from the Facility. To do that, I had to kill several hundred people. While tied to a table, waiting to be executed. And right now I don’t have a goddamn thing to lose but my life, which you’re gonna have one way or another. Do you really think I don’t have what it takes to end you?” The redhead’s expression broke, and John saw the man’s eyes go wide as he fully appreciated the situation. There was still a chance . . . still a chance that these goons would back down.
But then he saw the redhead reach for his pistol a
nd all bets were off. John immediately clamped his hand around the bulge in the redhead’s jacket. John squeezed—hard—and the weapon fired. The round passed through the suit jacket and hit one of the government goons, wounding him. John had been unconsciously breathing quickly as soon as the suits came into the office. He felt as if his body was a tuning fork that had just been struck the right way. Putting all of his might into it, John shoved the redhead away from him. Somehow he flung the man far too quickly into one of the suits behind him. They both violently crumpled into a heap as they crashed into and dented a large metal filing cabinet, sending papers flying. John and the others were momentarily stunned, and John could practically hear his whole body humming. It was the closest he’d ever had to being high on something like coke or meth—like being drunk, but with everything operating with full clarity and at high speed. Amped up. Jesus . . . these ‘enhancements’ are more than the docs ever promised.
The other two suits reacted before John had snapped out of his daze. One ran towards him with a blackjack raised. It looked like he was moving a little slower than he should have been. John quickly raised his left arm to block the overhand strike, but his timing was off; he moved too fast and was out of position when the blow landed. John staggered backwards, and his opponent pressed his advantage, raining blows on John’s head and shoulders. Every counter John tried, he overextended himself, punching or kicking too hard, blocking too fast and early, which basically amounted to him missing the block every time. John’s left eye had closed up, and he could feel blood flowing freely from his scalp. He was backed up against the wall, and the suit that had been shot had joined in trying to subdue him. John roared and grabbed the blackjack-wielder in a tackle suddenly and carried him into the opposite wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noticed that the cinder-block wall of the office cracked and deformed when they impacted. John started pounding the man’s midsection, still shouting. He immediately stopped both after looking up to see the man’s vacant eyes; the back of his head was—flat. And blood was splattered all over the wall around it. John gasped, stepping back and away from the body; it slid messily to the floor.
The injured suit behind him got his attention, shocking him back to the present out of his self-horror. “Bastard!” He raised a pistol at John, leveling it with his chest. Moving faster than he knew he could, John was upon the suit almost instantly. He spun the man around, and then twisted his pistol arm behind his back, jamming the gun into his spine. There were popping and snapping sounds as sinew and bone gave way to John’s brute strength. The man started—well it wasn’t screaming, exactly, it was more like a high-pitched whine through clenched teeth. I’ve already killed one. First one’s expensive, the rest are cheap. Screw it. John forced the man to fire the pistol repeatedly, emptying the magazine. Since the muzzle was pressed deeply into the man’s back, the shots were muffled.
The redhead made the mistake of getting up, instead of playing dead. The suit he had landed on didn’t need to play; he was most certainly dead, neck broken by the impact. “You . . . fucking . . . asshole!” Redhead was cradling a broken left arm, his pistol still in his right hand. “We gave you a way back in! You could’ve been made! Helped us stay on top . . . but you threw it away! Any one of us would’ve killed to have the opportunity you had, to be what you’ve become!” He then swung the pistol towards John. Still moving with blinding speed, John drew his 1911 from his waistband, lined the front sight up with the redhead’s chest, and fired four times in rapid succession. The man crumpled, whimpering, without ever getting a shot off. John slowly walked over to the man, picking up and shouldering his backpack.
“You wanted to be like me? Wish granted, shithead. Now we’re both dead men.” John fired the pistol a final time at the man’s face, finishing him. He reholstered the pistol in his waistband, moving the jacket to cover the exposed grip.
Is this what it’s going to be like? Is this what I have to do? Is this what I might become?
No time for that shit now.
John heard and felt the suit with the broken neck get up. Slowly, he turned around. The man’s neck was still at an odd angle. That is, until he used his hands and snapped it back into place with a sickening pop. “What? You thought they’d only send chumps to bring one of us back?” The man didn’t wait for a reply; he simply charged, wordlessly and without expression, moving just as fast as John could. John caught him just in time, locking his hands onto the man’s shoulders. They were equally matched for strength and speed. John brought his knee up between them, and then flexed his leg as hard as he could. The man was kicked out less than a foot—damn he was strong!—but it was enough to break the grip that they had on each other.
Time slowed down for John again. He’s like me. That’s what they want from me. Some sort of obedient, Frankensteinian bastard. Everything that John had been through in the last two days blurred through his mind in a tumble of jumbled images, all out of sequence. The training, the fighting, the running, the drugs, his escape . . . her . . . All the rage came swimming back to the surface, surging through him, overwhelming him. He didn’t notice the fire forming in his hands, crawling up his arms and shoulders. He was still too amped up from his enchancements, from all the fighting. He saw the man through a red haze, someone not unlike him. That only made him hate the suit even more, their similarities. John screamed once, and reached for the man. He knew he wanted the bastard dead, but he didn’t know how he was going to make it happen. The wanting was all it took, though. A giant stream of fire erupted from John’s hand; it engulfed the man, fanning over him and splaying against the wall behind him. Before John could even think to stop, the entire room was on fire. The man was a charred cinder on the ground, still twitching. The enhancements . . . they seemed to make it harder for John to control himself when he was amped up.
The scene around him resembled the Facility far too much for his liking. I need to get out of here. Less than two minutes had passed since the men had walked into the room. It felt like a lifetime. John opened the door that he had first entered to get into the office . . . and came face to face with the transit cop. John was faster on the draw, however; more practice, and more opportunity to put that practice to use. He had a bead on the cop’s center of mass before the cop had even cleared his holster. Behind him the office was on fire, flames licking across the ceiling tiles.
John slowly raised his aim from the cop’s chest to his forehead. “Just let me go. This isn’t a great day for either of us, right?”
They both had to choose. John desperately did not want to shoot. This wasn’t some Program goon, this was just a regular joe, an honest cop. The guy wasn’t in on the score. Hell he had wanted to help him. But, right now, he was an obstacle. The cop had to choose, between a dangerous man and the fire behind him. He couldn’t deal with both. And if he chose wrong, he might end up dead and able to deal with neither.
The fire alarms went off, and so did the sprinkler system, which didn’t seem to be doing anything to the fire in the office. “So? What’s your call? You’re decent. You tried to help an asshole like me, and that’s a lot more than most would’ve thought ’bout doing. I’m just tryin’ to get clear.” You could still see that there were bodies in the office, even through the flames. The cop’s eyes widened, shocked. Had he known the goons were in there? John had the feeling that he hadn’t. “Trust me,” he added impulsively, “this was way, way past yer pay-grade.”
There was another of those moments, when time got slower, or John got faster, and he could practically see thoughts flashing behind the cop’s eyes. Then the man reached out with an empty, open hand; John kept from reacting. The cop grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into the corridor, then shoved him towards the exit. “Get! And grab anybody you run into and get them out too!”
John nodded. There wasn’t anything that he could say. He’d had two decent people go above and beyond to help him in less than a day. There just weren’t words for something like that. So, without another
word, John disappeared into the station, and out, pulling a couple of random strangers who were reacting to the alarm with bewilderment out with him. Looked like he’d have to find another way out of town.
“YO! Daydreamer!” Vickie’s voice in his ear kicked him out of memory. “I’ve got incoming CCCP in less than an hour. Uh . . . just to remind you, one of ’em’s The Bear. I have a food delivery service showing at your door in fifteen, booze in thirty.”
John shook his head to clear it. “Christ. I’m not sure that there’s enough vodka in this dry little town. Not to mention Chef Boyardee.” He thought for a moment. “If you can get some diesel and noodles with ketchup delivered, I think it’ll suffice; not sure Ol’ Pavel could tell the difference twixt any of ’em.”
Vickie chuckled. “Hell if I know . . . but you’re the one that’s gonna have to stow the case of cans.”
John sobered. “Hey, Vic?”
“Roger?”
“You know everything in that file. An’, I suppose any other files you’ve dug up on me. Are we still cool? This Overwatch only works if we’re both in on it, after all.”
Vickie’s voice softened. “Cool as a cucumber, bonehead. It’s not just what’s in your file. It’s what you are.”
“ . . . and what am I?” John’s voice had the barest hint of pain in it, longing to be understood. Save for Sera, no one knew him the way Vick did.
“A helluva man, and my friend. The guy I trust at my back. More, the guy I trust at Bell’s. Now get ready for incoming food and universit, in that order.”
“Roger, dodger. And . . . thanks, Vic.”
He heard unaccustomed warmth in her voice. “Da nada, big guy.” There was a buzz of a doorbell at the door of the unit. “Huh. Early. Twenty-buck tip. Don’t be a cheapskate.”
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