Into the Fire

by Peter Liney

  Immediately that sound became more specific, more frightening, as it echoed along the street toward me in onrushing shock waves. Over and over that familiar thump-thump-thump! thump-thump-thump! was getting louder with every step, more threatening.

  I picked up my pace. I needed to work out exactly how I was going to do this before they arrived, and by the sound of it, they weren’t that far away—and yet the street wasn’t as busy as I’d’ve expected. I checked the other side, and glancing up an alleyway saw the crowds and panic I’d been anticipating—I’d turned too soon.

  I crossed over and headed up the alleyway, at that precise moment a running mob coming bursting around the corner. I tried to dodge and weave my way through them, but there were far too many and slowly they pushed me back until I was pinned up against a wall. I fought my way out, getting jolted and shoved, punched and screamed at, but in the end I somehow managed to get through.

  As I got to the junction, I saw a large group of Specials marching toward me, intent on blocking off the alleyways so no one else could escape. I slipped around the corner just in time, finding the nearest doorway, keeping as far back in the shadows as I could until they’d passed and I could merge into the crowds unchallenged.

  I got a real shock when I took my first look down that smoky, chaotic street. Those nights they swept down our way, demolishing the church and everything else, I don’t reckon they’d rounded up more than a couple of hundred people—here there were more like thousands: old people, desperately trying to run, to force their stiff old arthritic joints to function; kids darting from side to side like mice looking for a hole to escape; even some of the zombie-sick were getting swept along with it, as if their feet weren’t touching the ground, that they simply didn’t have the strength to resist. All of them had been flushed out of their hiding places: abandoned buildings, lean-tos, storm drains, anywhere they’d mistakenly thought they were safe. And behind them, like some huge cacophonous wall rearing up toward us, came the now-familiar shouting and beating, the clanking of heavy machinery, the piercing spotlights of the Dragonflies.

  Now that I’d joined the flow and knew which way it was being driven, I had to somehow get to the front of it. The only trouble was, the amount of panic, the surging and swirling hysteria, it was damn near impossible. I tried to speed up, to even run a little, but within moments there’d be some kind of obstruction and people would lose it, screaming at each other, not out of anger but just pure, blind terror. All possible exits were closed off, side streets, lanes and alleyways, doors into functioning buildings, anywhere where they thought we might be able to escape.

  Yet somehow I managed to slip and slide my way through, using a minimum of force, trying to ensure my progress was as uneventful as possible, acutely aware of the package I was carrying, that if it got broken, this whole thing would be off.

  I got shouted at a couple of times by people taking exception to me pushing past, but I just apologized as best I could and kept going. Behind me I could hear the growing thunder: the roar of the engines, the screaming chorus of the hunters, even the occasional loosed gunshot.

  I’d known it would be an ordeal, a further vent for madness, but there was something else, too. I couldn’t exactly say how, but in some way it felt different. Maybe it was the sheer scale of it, the unpredictable nature of such a huge crowd, or perhaps it had something to do with the uncertainty, that no one had the faintest idea where we were being driven. For sure I couldn’t think of a square or park in the vicinity big enough to hold so many people, and if it wasn’t going to be that, what the hell was it?

  I’ve never been the greatest sports fan in the world. I used to watch a little on the screen, but the only sporting event I ever actually attended was the track with Mr. Meltoni. For sure, I had no idea where any of the City’s major sporting venues were. If I had, maybe I would’ve had second thoughts about what I was planning on doing.

  I kept checking the signs to see if there was any indication of an upcoming open area, but it still took me a while to realize that the only destination being regularly signposted was the stadium. Even then I didn’t get it, not until it came into view, all brightly lit and glowing, and I heard the muttering of those around me. They started to cry out in protest, trying to turn around and push back the other way, knowing it could only mean something unforgivable. For a few moments they held their ground, refusing to go any further, but the Specials pushed up hard behind us, using their weapons—clubs, electro-shields, shock-gloves—and after a bit of a struggle and several people getting zapped and writhing on the ground, the protest disintegrated and we were herded forward again, into the heart of the stadium through a long, cold tunnel.

  We stumbled out onto the floodlit grass, taking a few dazed and blinded steps forward, then stopped and gaped all around, realizing we weren’t alone. The upper stands were filled with hundreds, maybe even thousands of shooters, all sitting there surrounded by the remains of their fast food and beer—or maybe sushi and champagne—weapons in their hands, eagerly peering down on us.

  The Specials stopped their beating and a line of them quickly took up position around the periphery of the field while others blocked the exits. Two Dragonflies hovered overhead, their spotlights shining down like finely stretched luminous webs. I was so shocked for a moment all I could do was stare. This wasn’t what I’d imagined, not what I’d had in mind at all. I’d anticipated a square or park, somewhere where there would be nooks and crannies, bushes, places where I could hide if necessary. That would’ve been dangerous enough—but out there, brightly lit and totally exposed, with nowhere to hide? It was like some huge mass firing squad—which, I guess, was exactly what it was.

  All around me I could see others coming to the same conclusion, the disbelief on their faces being replaced by terror. There were cries of helplessness as they frantically looked left and right for a way to escape.

  I don’t know what set me running—there was nowhere to go. I could see shooters studying prospective targets through their sights, going from person to person, wondering who to take down first. One young woman in particular was smirking at me from the front row as if to say, “I’m gonna get that big old bastard before anyone else does” and I just turned and fled, dodging around those also running, pushing aside those too scared to move.

  From what I’d seen of Clean-ups, no one was that much of a shot. I figured if I ran to the center of the field, maybe—and I do mean maybe—given how inept they were, I just might manage to stay alive.

  Some really hap-hap-happy announcer welcomed everyone to the “main event of the evening” and started geeing them up, saying it was time to, “Take out the trash!” Someone started shooting even before he finished—’course, he remonstrated with them, told them to wait for his say-so, but only in a jokey way. And finally, with his voice rising to a deranged pitch, those around me screaming in terror, the shooters baying in excitement, he called out to everyone to, “Clean up this City!”

  It was like the whole world exploded. Gunshots, laser burns, jeering and howling, insanity on a scale you simply couldn’t imagine. I saw the old, the young, the sick, person after person, tumbling to the ground, bodies mounting up, falling on top of each other. Many were so badly wounded they were no longer recognizable as human, but just slashed and punctured weeping chunks of meat and bone. How long it went on, I dunno—I guess it wasn’t any more than a minute or two, but it felt like the most godless of infinities.

  It wasn’t until the shooters stopped—to reload maybe, or to take another gulp of their drinks—that I heard the screaming. It was the most chilling sound that’s ever entered my head—a grating collision of terror and pain, and in that moment, realizing that everyone here was gonna be cut down, I knew my time had come: that it was now or never.

  I pretended to panic, to run blindly, dodging people, leaping over bodies, then suddenly toppled over as if I’d been hit and hadn’t immediately appreciated it. Colliding with the grass face-first, smell
ing the moistness of the watered soil, hoping I’d died a convincing death.

  I didn’t make the slightest movement, just in case someone had zoomed in to make sure. I was just another lifeless corpse—no more, no less. However, after a few moments, my hand began to stir and slowly inch its way down inside my parka until I eventually located the thick plastic bag I’d dug out of the garbage, its precious contents slopping around inside. I slowly tugged it out and placed it under my forehead, then began to push down with all my might, straining my neck muscles, for a tense moment fearing the plastic might be too strong. Yet finally it broke, exploding all over me, drenching me in a mixture of water and my own blood that I’d drained from my self-inflicted wound.

  It covered my face, my hair, my neck and chest, and I hoped the fact that it was real blood, that it was verifiably mine, meant there’d be no suspicion of my “fatal” wound.

  But that wasn’t it, of course. That was the easy bit. I slowly raised my head, just the merest fraction, taking in the view around me, knowing it might well be my last glimpse of this Earth.

  If it was, then it sure wasn’t the one I would’ve chosen. You’ve never seen such carnage, nor heard such a terrible noise. The smoke was so thick now I couldn’t see most of the people in the stands—which, I guessed, was the reason why a lot of them had stopped shooting. Nevertheless, there was still more than enough going on for anyone to worry about who was dead and who wasn’t. Again I kept my movements slow and easy as I reached down into my other inside pocket and located my second precious package, thanking God when I drew it out and saw it hadn’t been broken. With all the jostling and fighting, the heavy fall I took pretending to be shot, it wouldn’t’ve surprised me.

  I carefully unwrapped it, slightly rolled to one side, priming the syringe as I did so, then stuck it into my stomach and injected myself. I had just enough time to remember to throw it clear of my body before its contents went to work, and then everything around me—the floodlit stadium, the shooters, the screaming of victims, and finally my consciousness itself—faded into nothing.

  I once took a bullet for Mr. Meltoni’s wife. I mean, you don’t think about these things, you don’t have time. Either you do or you don’t, and I did. At the time, the business was going through a bit of an unsettled period, loyalties had got a little blurred and Mr. Meltoni must’ve been concerned, ’cuz he insisted on me accompanying his wife wherever she went. Which, in her case, was pretty much always shopping.

  It was a duty I hated every bit as much as walking that damn dog of hers, Mitzi, though what I hated the most was when she insisted on taking it with us, so I had to put up with a double helping of humiliation. She used to make us wait outside—I mean, talk about embarrassing: standing there with this buttoned and bowed ball of expensively coiffeured fluff sitting on my shoes. And I swear that stupid pooch knew how uncomfortable I was, ’cuz she always added to it by pooping in the doorway of Valentino or Chanel or wherever it was. Or maybe she was just making a statement. Maybe she hated shopping as much as I did and wanted everyone to know. Either way, for a big guy to have to clear up after that little thing while all those fur-coated ladies pushed by with their noses in the air was well up on the shaming scale.

  I remember, we were just starting to suffer winter and the first fall of snow was thick on the ground. The sidewalks hadn’t been properly cleared and people were slipping and sliding all over. These two guys must’ve been watching us for a while ’cuz they obviously knew her routine pretty well. Thursday was Gucci day and they were waiting for her just down the street. As it happened, Mrs. Meltoni had just called Mitzi and me in to give our opinion on a dress, which was another of my duties I hated. What could I say? “It’s nice? It’s okay?” And as for what I thought the dog’s opinion was—how the hell did I know? I mean, she was a beautiful young woman. Mr. Meltoni took good care of her. It was up to him to pass the compliments.

  Not that it mattered what I said, in fact, I reckon she only asked my opinion so she could ignore it. Anyways, thank the Lord, when we left that shop my arms were empty for once—well, apart from Mitzi.

  I saw these two guys approaching as we made our way toward the limo. They were both carrying packages, but it was the way they were carrying them—straight out in front of them—that made me suspicious. I got this really bad feeling, a whole tidal wave of it, and suddenly had one of those moments where you become a spectator of your own actions.

  I just let Mitzi fall to the ground and leaped to shield Mrs. Meltoni. At that precise moment, both guys’ parcels were blown away by the guns they had inside them.

  I took one in the shoulder—well, more to the back really—as the two guys immediately turned to run back to their vehicle, but one of them slipped, and grabbing his companion, took them both down.

  They were just lying there, floundering around, trying to get up, with me slumped a few feet away bleeding heavily and Mrs. Meltoni screaming out at the top of her voice. God knows what would’ve happened next; I guess they’d’ve got to their feet eventually. But to my astonishment—maybe ’cuz she was so indignant at being so unceremoniously dropped—Mitzi went on the attack, yapping furiously and leaping at the gunmen, getting her teeth into one guy’s ear. It was mayhem, old-time variety, though thankfully, a patrol car just happened to be passing by.

  Mr. Meltoni was really grateful; he even insisted I took a spell off. For some reason, though, his wife was never the same with me again. Even worse, from then on she took to calling her mutt “Mitzi the Minder”—she even had it inscribed on its damn diamanté collar. Forget the fact that it was me who took the bullet, that I put my body between her and two gunmen.

  But the point is, either you do or you don’t, and despite what you might think now, you won’t know until it happens. And I guess it’s just as well that most of us go through our lives without ever having to finding out. It really depends on who you are and what it is you want to protect. Doubtless Jimmy was right: what I was doing was suicide. Someone was probably loading a bullet or firing up a laser that had my name on it even as I passed out. But I was doing what I could to protect the woman I loved, not to mention the child we’d created together, and when it comes down to it, we’d all do that, wouldn’t we?

  In a way, it was that convoy of white trucks that’d really set me thinking. The fact that they went into Infinity at more or less the same time on set afternoons. It didn’t make any sense. They were “clean-up” vehicles for transporting the dead (leaving them in dumpsters, apparently), so why did they need to go to Infinity?

  Of course, anyone with half a brain would’ve got it right away. When I told Jimmy, he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, as if I was doing no more than stating the all too damn obvious. If there was one thing Gordie falling victim to an enticer had taught us, it was that the transplant business was way out of control. And thanks to Jimmy, we also knew that satellite poisoning meant there was an endless queue of people clamoring for replacement organs. Nothing was coming over from the Island anymore and the price had obviously gone through the roof, so I guess it made perfect sense for Specials to go through the bodies after a Clean-up, checking for any that might have something worth taking. Young people mostly, but others, too—like some old dude who looked like he must’ve recently stumped up the cash for a new young kidney? Who had the typical scar of a back-street transplant surgeon? He’d be taken to Infinity’s hospital wing to be investigated . . . wouldn’t he?

  Okay, and if you’re thinking that’s a fair example of taking a bullet for someone, then you still gotta little ways to go. See, even if I stayed more still than the dead themselves on that grass, getting dragged off and heaped up along with other possible donors, there’d still be no chance of me getting into Infinity, ’cuz the moment they scanned the truck at the gate and checked life forms against Infinity personnel, it’d be all over. I wouldn’t have to play dead, I would be.

  For a while that was where I got stuck, there just didn’t seem to be any way, then
I remembered what Dr. Simon had done with Lena, how he was able to transport her without risk of being discovered. And that was why I went to see Jimmy, to get him to look up his analysis of what was in that syringe and make up some more.

  So now I hope it makes sense? I was actually standing in front of the bullet. It was on its way toward me. Jimmy had warned me a thousand times I was relying too much on conjecture, that if I had one detail wrong, made one incorrect assumption, my whole plan would come tumbling down like a troupe of weak-kneed acrobats. He could’ve also added that it would probably cost me my life.

  Whatever happened, the little guy’d been determined I’d come to no harm ’cuz of him. His role in this was absolutely crucial, his calculations had to be spot-on. I don’t know how big the window was between me being scanned at the gate and when the bodies started getting cut up, but for comfort I reckoned I needed to start coming around almost the moment I was inside the compound.

  At first he’d said it was impossible, that there were far too many variables—the strength of the mixture, my body weight, what I’d eaten—any number of things. And he kept punctuating his sentences with that same warning, over and over: that he wasn’t “any kind of chemist!”

  I hoped he was setting himself up as usual, trying to make a task look even more difficult than it was, but there was an uncertainty about him I didn’t recognize. Maybe this was too much even for Jimmy?

  Anyways, I’m sure you can fill in the rest. After weeks of intense thought, walking the City, not sleeping at night, that was what I’d come up with—a shot so long it was gonna have to follow the curvature of the Earth. But what did you expect? People don’t change: I’m just a dumb old big guy, and to tell ya the truth, it wouldn’t’ve surprised me if I’d never woken from that long cold darkness.