Anarchy

by Rhett Gervais

  Rowen was not sure how long it went on. She fell into a rhythmic pattern of shooting and reloading, the recoil of the machine pistol numbing her hands. The drones were relentless with no sign of slowing when suddenly the torrent turned to a trickle and then nothing, the silence of their absence deafening. She looked around at the others with her, amazement plastered on all their faces, no one daring to speak or even move.

  “Is that it?” she asked, hesitating, her voice deafening in the silence.

  “Let me look,” said Tony, one of the men on the upper platform. He quickly donned a pair of night-vision glasses, peeking out hesitantly into the now-silent tunnel from the murder hole he had been using. After what seemed an eternity, he turned to face the group, turning down his lips and shrugging, palms up. “Nothing. I can’t see—”

  They saw him fall before they heard the hiss and whip-crack of the shot, his limp form tumbling to the ground like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut. Rowen struggled to catch her breath, her face ashen. She looked around to see the same look on the men and women surrounding her, mouths agape, and eyes darting around like cornered rats.

  She barely had time to register it all before she heard a rhythmic gallop of metal feet on concrete, a nightmarish echo like hundreds of typewriters tapping away madly behind the wall moving closer by the moment. Part of her hungered to look, to see what was coming, but Tony’s headless body dissuaded her. She felt a small pang of guilt for not having gotten to know him better, but a nagging sensation tunneled like an insect into her brain screaming at her to run, get away. Looking around, she could see they all had the same thought, and with a slight nod, they turned to run en masse.

  They had only gotten a few feet before the first titan-like strike pounded on the wall, ripping it to shreds and spitting deadly shrapnel in all directions. Rowen found herself a dozen feet away, hurriedly trying to put out the fire dancing along her boots, feeling as though a giant were sitting on her lungs as she tried to catch her breath. Behind her, she could see the barricade was no more, simply a ring of burning metal barely clinging to the subway walls. In its place stood a pack of dog-sized drones pacing back and forth on four legs. Black and angular with segmented bodies, their dull surfaces blended with the darkness, making them difficult to see. Rowen felt a jolt of fear as the glowing eye on each machine turned to focus on her, their bodies coiling like a hunting cat just before pouncing. She bolted to her feet, her actions more reflex than thought, and found her new gun comfortably in her hand. She squeezed the hair trigger as fast as her fingers would fly, letting her instincts take over. Without fail, each bullet found its mark, piercing the unblinking eyes of the charging pack drones, their explosions showering the tunnel in a trail of sparks as their metal bodies ground to a shrieking halt along the concrete. More came in their wake, springing, leaping over the corpses of dead machines. Someone threw a metal canister on the tracks in front of her, filling the subway tunnel with a wall of smoke, obscuring sight, hopefully providing enough cover for them to fall back. Someone behind her fired wildly, then another. She felt more than saw the men and women she had been running with, machine pistols and explosive ammunition shattering the incoming drones and giving her time.

  Having a moment of respite, they broke for the next wall at a full sprint. The moments became a blur, the small door to the secondary wall opening, the call of her friends to hurry, taking position again. They had learned from the first encounter. Smoke grenades were constant now, the hollow thunk and rattle on concrete a comfort, the acrid smoke burning in her lungs a screen against heads being removed. Rowen took a moment to breathe, pick up some fresh clips. Looking around, she could see the fatigue in everyone she had been with at the first checkpoint, the bowed heads, hands that shook too much and unfocused eyes looking out to nowhere.

  Rowen knew this fight was just a delay tactic. Her father had drawn up contingency plans for days just like today. The goal was to use the automated fortifications to hold the enemy off long enough for everyone to scatter deep into the tunnels and hole up below ground wherever they could, making them almost impossible to track. Her father would send a signal afterward to meet up at a secondary base—that was the plan, at least.

  After having a taste of what they were up against, Rowen decided to report to her father. This place was lost, and they had to move on quickly before they became overwhelmed. She could only hope he would see reason in accelerating their evacuation.

  ***

  Moving quickly, Rowen had just made her way past the last checkpoint onto the main platform, pushing through the throngs of loved ones whose family members were fighting to defend them, when the entire subway was rocked, fine dust falling like snow from above. She pushed through throngs of folks packing what little they had, faces marred with worry for those still fighting. Rowen feared the worst as a wave of heated air washed over her, explosions echoing from the tunnels in all directions like waves of thunder.

  “GO, GO!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Leave it all, it’s too much to carry!” Racing for the situation room, she tapped the comm link in her ear. “Report. Report . Anyone.”

  Rowen cringed when there was no response, only static and silence. Cursing under her breath, she pushed through the stampede of human bodies that surrounded her, desperate to get to the command center and not be washed away with the tide of humanity desperate to escape.

  At last she squeezed her way into the war room to find Gibbs, her father, and Blake at the door, trying to guide people to the exit at the other end of the tunnel.

  Her father had looked better. The side of his head was caked with blood and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. Seeing her, he gave her a weak smile. “Rowen, good. Time to go. We can regroup later,” he said in a low voice. Blake, at his side, was calm, his banker face showing little emotion as he toyed with his Beretta, helplessly watching the bodies stream by. Gibbs, on the other hand, was a mess, wild-eyed with waxen skin, his face creased with worry.

  “There’s more coming—more than I can do anything about,” said Gibbs, his shoulders slumped.

  “What about the people we had at the checkpoints?” she asked, pressing her thin lips together. Gibbs could only shake his head, his eyes downcast. She had just been there. They had been wary but alive. What could have happened so suddenly? It could have been her if she hadn’t decided to come here. Did she deserve to be here any more than the people in the tunnel?

  They were just about to join the streaming crowd when another wave of hot air rolled over them, followed by a low-frequency boom that rocked the subway once again: Dust and old plaster from the last century falling like rain on the surging crowd. The wild mass began to scream, all sense of order vanishing in a heartbeat as people abandoned rationality, wildly pushing and shoving with no regard for anything as they fought to escape a threat they couldn’t see. Rowen cringed each time someone fell, trampled underfoot and forgotten in the desperate flight.

  She hung back, pushing her small gang back into the situation room, not trusting the uncaring mobs. No one followed, the mob mentality only wanting out. The last thing she wanted to do was give up, and looking down at the pistol in her hand, she knew she would rather go down fighting than holed up. But she needed to protect her father, Gibbs too. Looking back at her small group, she gave them all a questioning glance, her hand on the button to secure the heavy door. The three men only hesitated for a moment before wearily nodding, her father being the last to agree. With an air of finality, she pressed the button, the heavy door sliding shut while the electronic lock clicked into place, the sound of metal grinding against metal leaving small bruises on her consciousness. Gibbs and Blake sat her father down at the front of the situation room, and Rowen and Blake moved the heavy desk to block the door, knowing it would do little to help when the time came.

  They sat in silence for a time, the only sound coming from the shuffling feet and screams of those fleeing just outside the door. No one dared to speak.

>   The noise was subtle at first, barely heard above the din, the whining echo, the tiny explosions like a short sharp shock. It started slowly, a pop here or there followed by a few more at a time. And the screams, louder than a banshee’s wail, the sound of people who knew the end was coming. Continuous, unending screams, muted only by the popping sound of a thousand fireworks exploding at once. Rowen pulled her new gun from its holster, knowing it needed a name of some sort. Not that it mattered anymore. She had over a dozen clips squirreled away in her myriad of pockets, although she was sure that no amount of ammunition would be enough for this. Shrugging away the thought, she took cover behind one of the communications desks that they hadn’t been able to move, motioning for the others to do the same, and waited. After a while, the sound of the dying quieted. Only the hum of the drones’ propellers remained, highlighted by the ringing echo of metal on tile.

  She looked over to see Gibbs holding one of the tables with a death grip, his knuckles white. She didn’t need to ask. She could see it in his face, his posture. He was looking through the eyes of the machines, the crystal that had invaded his body allowing him to do that. “I’m trying to keep them from coming this way,” he said, seeing that she was watching him, “but there are too many…and they’re no longer distracted by—”

  Gibbs fell in a sudden heap, like someone had thrown a switch. There was no warning; he was there one moment and gone the next, collapsed like a broken toy. Rowen felt a sudden surge of worry as she ran over to where he lay, Blake and her father appearing at his side as well. She knew he had been pushing himself, and they had no clue what the crystal on his neck was doing to him. The thought had crossed her mind that if they could spy on the enemy with this, couldn’t they do the same to them.

  “Is he alive?” she asked, receiving a grunt from her father and a subtle nod from Blake. She was about to ask if they should put him on one of the tables when she heard a knock at the door, a quiet voice barely audible from the other side asking to be let in. Her father placed a single finger to his lips, demanding silence. They waited, frozen, not daring to breathe.

  Rowen let out a sharp breath as she heard the knock again, the voice sounding far away. It took her a moment to realize that everything outside had gone silent, the hum of the flyers, and the ticking sound of metal on stone vanished as well. “Your friend is alright,” said the small voice from the other side of the door. “He’ll be awake in a moment. I just needed him to stop. I can explain it all if you let me in. I can help you. I’m a friend.”

  Rowen shook her head, her brow creasing. The voice didn’t sound like anyone she knew. It was more likely a Russian officer asking for their surrender. She gripped her gun tighter as she stood and looked at the door. Her instincts told her this was something else. The enemy would simply use one of the four-legged drones to blast open the door—they certainly wouldn’t be asking for permission. Moving quickly, she went to the door. Taking a deep breath, she raised her pistol to her cheek, the cool metal against her skin calming her nerves, she looked over to her father, who gave her a brief nod as she pressed the button to open the door a crack, peeking out.

  Standing in the doorway was a boy no taller than her, dressed in a simple service uniform that the soldiers back in Fort Carson wore for day-to-day activities, black with a red collar, pants tucked into knee-high leather boots. He had dark, intense eyes and skin the color of caramel. A quick glance behind him showed not a single sign of any drone, only the mangled bodies of the fallen. It was clear he was alone. Meeting her eyes, he squeezed a small hand through the door by way of introduction.

  “You must be Rowen. I’m Arthur. I’ve been looking for you, and I’m glad to finally meet you.”

  Chapter 16: The Spark of Hope

  May 2076

  “I’m sorry I got here so late,” said the strange boy. Arthur, he called himself. “I did manage to stop most of the drones though. I know it doesn’t look like it given the circumstances, but many of your people got away, scattered into the tunnels from what I’ve seen.”

  They stood just past the entrance to the command center, Rowen using her gun to scratch the scar running from her temple to her chin, Blake having come to stand beside her. Behind her she could hear Gibbs coming awake and her father trying to keep him quiet. “You’re telling me you did this? You stopped the drones from attacking us? Are you like poor Gibbs over there? Is that high collar of yours hiding one of those crystals?”

  Arthur only smiled, smoothly clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m not like Gibbs. As I said, I’m here to help. I have a plan to take back the city and—”

  “Hold your horses, kid,” said Blake roughly, spitting at Arthur’s feet. “How do we know you’re not some Russian spy or something?”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow, locking eyes with the salt-and-pepper-haired man. “Why would the Russians need a spy? They had you beat, were about to kill you all. Not much point spying on the dead.”

  Rowen rested a hand on Blake’s arm, trying to calm the paranoid man. She was just about to speak when she heard shuffling behind her. “That still doesn’t explain who you are or what you’re doing here, or how you knew how to find us. It seems really weird that you show up just as we’re about to be wiped out!” Gibbs spoke faster than normal, his verbal diarrhea gushing like a broken water main.

  “Yeah, pretty much everything he said,” said Rowen, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at her wide-eyed friend. She looked back to see her father and Gibbs leaning heavily against one another, both haggard and looking worse for wear. She knotted her brow, noticing the crystal on her friend’s neck had gone dark and gray, a spider web of black veins slowly spreading on his pale skin like cracks on a broken mirror.

  “Give the boy a chance to speak,” said her father, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell us who you are, son, how we can help each other.”

  Seeing her friend’s condition, Rowen quickly squirreled under Gibbs, placing his arm around her shoulder to support his weight. With a sidelong glance at Arthur, she hefted her pistol. “He was fine before you showed up. Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it. I don’t know who the hell you are, and I won’t ask a second time.”

  Arthur raised his hands in defense, palms out. “Sorry, his crystal’s signal was interfering. Now that the drones are under my control, I think it should be ok to stop blocking it.”

  Rowen hefted her pistol, taking aim as Arthur raised his hand, a single finger pointing at Gibbs. With a sudden burst of light, the crystal flared back to life, flashing through its entire color sequence faster than she could blink. Gibbs took a deep, shuddering breath like a man who suddenly remembered that he could breathe, his eyes rolling back into his head for a moment, before giving her a wan smile.

  “The gun won’t do much, by the way,” said Arthur, lowering his arms and placing them once again behind his back. He narrowed his eyes, looking back at the subway platform. Behind him Rowen could only see darkness, broken glass scattered on the tile, the drones’ attacks having destroyed the lighting they had worked so hard to repair over the years. It felt like they had come full circle, having turned the dark and dismal tunnels into a bright, vibrant community since their arrival, lit a tiny spark of hope for those who had joined them. Today, the subway had been plunged once again into darkness, the tunnels dismal like when they arrived years ago. “Some of your people have made it back. I think we should help them before we do anything else, don’t you think?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Arthur turned from the door, heading down the platform. Rowen hesitated only a moment before holstering her gun. “Blake, grab the med kit. Dad, Gibbs, try to stay close but don’t overdo it.”

  Hurrying out onto the subway platform after him, Rowen covered her mouth, gagging as she sidestepped pools of congealing blood, bits of bone and flesh. The platform was a massacre, bodies strewn around, twisted in the throes of death, the white subway tile stained with streaks of red. The tiny murderous drones lay shattered beside the
bodies of their victims, still smoking, their toxic remains filling the air with an acidic scent, burning her nostrils and causing her eyes to water. Beside her, Blake doubled over, fighting for breath as he tried to clear his lungs of the poison, his cough deep and harsh.

  “Get down on the tracks,” said her father, climbing down, stumbling as his feet hit bottom. “The smoke, less of it down here.”

  Arthur continued walking, slowing only to pick up a bundle, a long leather travel coat and a pack of some kind. He walked ahead unfazed, his bloodstained boots leaving a grim path as he made his way along the platform. Jumping down onto the tracks, Rowen found her father was right. The air was easier to breathe lower down, though not by much. Ahead she could see signs of people making their way back. Even from the other end of the station, she could hear voices of dismay as people found the bodies of their loved ones and friends. Shaking her head, Rowen ran to catch up to their visitor, wanting some answers. It was an odd moment, Arthur walking on the platform above, her below, his face calm, hers creased with worry. “You didn’t answer any of our questions,” she said loudly, her voice echoing as she followed the third rail. “How did you know where to find us, and how can you control the drones?”

  Arthur never slowed, his hands a tight fist behind his back. “I’m a part of Divinity Corps, or at least I was until I came here, like the team Cardinal Washington sent a few months back,” he said as though it explained everything. “I learned about you unexpectedly. I was looking for something else, something personal, when I came across a holorecording of your father talking with Cardinal Washington. It was from the start of the war. It made me look deeper,” he said, looking down at her. “I found reports your father filed on your progress and read those too. The Divinity Corps members assigned here, Mary Beth especially, kept copious notes on you all, about the situation, kind words about you and your father as well. After reading it all, I couldn’t…I had to do something.”