He thought quickly in stressful situations. She liked that. He’d have an excellent chance to survive. She wondered why he’d not been part of the Select. She let the suit fill, watching him as she did, trying to place him. He looked young, his hair glistening with the excess moisture, and—based upon the layers of soaked clothing adhering to the contours of his body—quite fit. She kept looking at his eyes and face, though, trying to place them with the voice.
“Dump it out away from the water main.” His voice maintained that hint of authority. She did as he said. It wouldn’t be any better to dump the water out on the main now and find out the hard way that a few Ravagers had survived. She dumped the suit over—careful to keep it well within the watered-down surface area, and watched the Ravagers back away from the flowing stream of water.
Then she moved to the man, pulling suit and helmet with her. She opened the flap and undid the zipper and as she did, he pulled off his shoes and the layers of soaked clothing. It would be a tight fit, but it looked like he’d make it.
He stepped into the legs, wriggled his arms into place, his eyes on her the entire time. After he flexed his Diasteel covered fingers and zipped up the suit, he held out his hands for the helmet, which she handed over to him. He put the helmet on and affixed it to his head.
Then he lunged at her, picked her up, and threw her into the swarm of Ravagers surrounding them.
nineteen
Micah Jamison
After a brief moment of panic, Jamison willed himself calm, focusing on the completion of his mission. This was a mere obstacle, one he must deal with expeditiously. Sudden movement, facial expressions suggesting a possible retaliatory move, sudden intakes of breath… any of those could trigger the firing of the weapon.
Must. Remain. Calm.
Jamison studied the man with blistering efficiency. The wide eyes told him fear motivated this carjacking. Jamison tilted his head slowly, ever so slightly, and listened. Faint rumbling sounds reached his ears, and a quick scan of the skyline revealed no signs of inclement weather. He recognized the man—he lived a few doors down on the opposite side of the street—and noted that there were no previous signs the man suffered mental instability. Jamison must, therefore, assume this man knew of the impending threat, and knew a motor vehicle would be his only chance to outrun the Ravagers and stay alive.
Jamison’s mind had long since shifted into a warrior’s state, assessing situations and deciding responses with ruthless efficiency. This man wanted Jamison’s vehicle and intended to take it by force. That made him an enemy combatant. Jamison executed enemy combatants. The man before him was no warrior. He held the gun improperly, his stance gave him little chance to hit a target, and the safety remained active. Jamison knew, though, that even with the apparent advantage and discounting the safety activation, this man posed him little threat. Jamison’s training and skills would permit a quick disarmament… and, if he chose, a rapid execution.
Execution would permit the quickest resumption of his journey.
Execution it would be, then.
And then he heard the muffled whimpering from the opposite side of the car parked in the driveway.
Children.
Dammit. He’d forgotten. This neighbor was the father of two children. The image of the woman in the photo came unbidden to his mind. She’d never forgive him for killing a man before his children, or knowingly leaving the youths fatherless.
Dammit. Now what?
The mental clock in his head ticked down. The true threat, the Ravagers, approached at an accelerating pace. He needed to get inside the vehicle and on his way now before it was too late.
The entire thought process lasted a fraction of a second, and Jamison put his modified plan into action. He looked the man in the eye. “Put the gun down.”
“N-n-no,” his assailant stammered. “Hand… hand over… the keys.” He paused and appeared to decide he’d not sounded threatening enough. “Hand them over… now!”
Jamison had heard better bluffs from rookie poker players. One more chance, he decided. “I can’t do that. I need to get in that car and be on my way. Put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”
The man’s hand trembled. “No. My kids… my wife… we have to get away from… there’s something…”
“I’m aware of the threat,” Jamison said, keeping his eyes unblinking and his voice steady. “I’m afraid I can’t offer this vehicle for your use, however. It’s already been claimed.”
Something in Jamison’s tone and calm told the man that idle, dramatic threats would accomplish nothing. The steady calm from Jamison made clear that he’d picked someone with sound training in handling threats of violence. The man’s eyes flicked away, to the house next door, a quick check to see if a more easily deputized vehicle might be found nearby.
Jamison couldn’t wait for the man to make a decision, and the brief loss of eye contact was all he needed.
His hands were little more than blurs. He first pushed the gun aside, away from its intended target—him. He then seized the wrist of the gun hand and squeezed on the correct pressure point, rendering the man’s shooting hand and trigger finger numb.
The would-be thief finally reacted, ripping his non-shooting arm away from Jamison’s grip as the gun dropped from his own. He threw an uppercut at Jamison’s jaw, roaring with the rage of a parent protecting his children.
Jamison’s reflexes were too fast.
He caught the falling weapon with one hand while dodging the punch. As the man’s clenched fist buzzed by his face, Jamison used his free hand and grabbed the man’s wrist above the clenched fist. As his grip tightened, Jamison spun his back into the man, and once he felt the man’s body collide with his own, he pulled downward with ruthless savagery.
He tuned out the sound of screaming as the man’s shoulder cleanly separated, turning back to face his assailant. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed he’d snapped the man’s wrist in the process as well. And try as he might, Jamison couldn’t quite tune out the sounds of the man’s wife and children screaming and crying.
Jamison released his grip on the man’s wrist. The man dropped to the concrete driveway with a whimper, landing on his healthy shoulder. He couldn’t move the damaged arm enough to seize the shattered wrist—the jelly-like consistency proved Jamison had done more than merely break the joint—or cradle the dangling arm. Jamison glanced at the unfired weapon in his hand. He activated the safety, ejected the magazine, and tossed the separated weapon components in opposite directions.
He walked briskly to the car. The woman and children watched him, terror in their eyes as he moved closer. The mother pushed her children behind her, her eyes wide, as her husband’s tormenter neared them.
“Move,” Jamison told them.
They moved, racing to their fallen loved one. The children fell upon the mangled man, hugging him and trying to console him, even as the man tried to hide the depths of his pain for their benefit.
Jamison slid his hand down the outside of the car door and heard the familiar unlocking sounds. He pulled the door open and ducked inside the car before hesitating. Damn that woman and her insistence on teaching him compassion.
With a deep sigh, Jamison pulled back out of the car and stood up, looking at the family as they tended to their wounded husband and father. He cleared his throat, and they all looked his way in horror. Jamison focused his words on the woman. “The garage code is two four six oh one. Go inside the house. You’ll find yourself in the kitchen area. There’s an enhanced first aid kit in the lower cabinet to the left of the sink. It has a sling, an air cast device, and painkillers. That will help until you’re able to locate more comprehensive medical treatment. There’s a magnetized hook on the refrigerator with keys that operate the car in the garage. You’re welcome to use the car and anything else in the house.” He paused, as her face turned from fear to confusion. “And move quickly. You seem to know what’s coming. Speed is essential.”
He duck
ed back inside the car and slammed the door closed, listening as the sealing mechanism engaged, blocking out all sound from the outside world, including the nearby tears and sniffles. He was now running late, far too late. The family would never make it, but at least he’d given them a chance.
He knew she’d be proud of him, and that was all that mattered.
Jamison moved the car forward slowly. After ensuring that the trailer moved with him, he then accelerated, never looking back to see if they’d moved to get to the supplies he’d offered.
The drive through the city was an obstacle course of apocalyptic proportions, especially at the speed he maintained. He’d guessed they’d planted caches of Ravagers inside several buildings within the city, in addition to the one they’d “tricked” him into putting in the Bunker. The debris and terrified faces and swaying buildings proved that assumption accurate. The Bunker-bred swarm hadn’t made it this far, not yet. He swerved sharply to the right, slicing his way through a narrow side street as a mammoth thirty story building swayed beyond the tipping point, sending the upper floor toppling across the street where he’d been driving. The building opposite the latest Ravager conquest, not previously afflicted, collapsed and toppled on impact. Jamison realized the irony. If he’d not stopped to help them for those last few seconds, he’d…
He’d probably be dead, crushed by the sudden collapse of the buildings.
His curse of the woman in the photo turned to gratitude.
He spun the car to the left, accelerating down a parallel street to his primary road choice, flicking his eyes left to determine when he could get back to the correct street. He finally saw stability in the nearest buildings. Jamison performed a sharp left turn and headed back to the main road, ignoring the frightened refugees alternately waving to get his attention for assistance and diving from his path when they realized he wasn’t stopping. Jamison took a sharp right hand turn onto the main road, barely slowing down, and straightened the car onto the street.
He hit the shipyard going the maximum speed he thought the car could handle before slowing briefly. He checked his mirrors to ensure that the trailer remained firmly hitched and the lid remained fully sealed.
He turned and faced forward once more before slamming both panels up as far as they’d go.
The car launched forward toward the pier, and Jamison listened to the rumbling and rattling of the wooden structure against his tires, until the sounds quieted and the car catapulted toward the placid but steel-like surface of the great lake below.
twenty
Roddy Light
Roddy sprinted down the chute. He saw brighter light ahead, and though he didn’t know what he’d find, he knew what he wouldn’t find there. Roddy wanted to be in any place where he’d not find an enraged Oswald Silver.
The chute smelled of plastic and stale, if breathable, air. The roughly round tube had a walking platform roughly two feet wide, just enough for transporting a single person at a time. He could see the individual foot panels comprising his running track, and in his mind he marveled at the ingenuity of sliding additional panels into place as the outer tube extended. He wondered how they’d pull the panels back out when they retracted the tube, but decided that wasn’t critical at a time where running for his life was central to his continued existence.
As he neared the end of the tunnel, Roddy could hear new sounds, the unique humming sounds of different pieces of electronic equipment. He burst out of the end of the chute into what looked like a small medical facility. The smells of cleaning supplies filled the air. A man in a white coat sat before a computer, typing away, and spoke without looking up from the keyboard. “Welcome aboard, Captain Light. I’ll just need to do a few quick medical tests on you to ensure that—”
Roddy spotted the nearest door and ran to it, flung it open, and sprinted through, ignoring the shouts of the man in the white coat to stop for his entry screening.
He ran directly into a wall and bounced off, grunting. He shook himself and looked around, frantic, and found a stairwell to his right leading down. He seized the handrails on both sides and took the steps as quickly as he could. He opened the door at the bottom and stepped out in the main part of the space station.
Roddy found himself on one side of a wide hallway lined with sturdy carpeting, freshly installed based on the smell. If he’d not been so fearful of imminent death, Roddy would happily stop and stare. He turned left and right, seeing clumps of people—all looking healthy, happy, and attractive—walking along and chatting. None of the people paid him the slightest attention. With no means of knowing which direction might be safer, he turned right and ran. The floor curved down slightly on the horizon, and somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that this space station was ring-shaped. The floor would need to curve or it would eventually leave the confines of the ring. He raced along, ignoring the signage on the walls talking about the history of the station, of the men and women who’d built it, of the tragedies they’d endured in getting it operational. He ran by the doors to either side, many closed and with nameplates affixed. He recognized none of the names. He ran past the gaps in the continuous walls, past common areas teeming with people, many enjoying meals, others enjoying conversation, still others watching video entertainment on giant screens.
He ran and ignored the view available overhead, the one teeming through the translucent exterior of the ring. He ignored the giant, glowing sphere above him, not stopping to admire all of the brilliant colors he’d known from his time on the planet.
He ran because Oswald Silver burst out of the stairwell, spotted him, and shouted. Roddy had moved a significant distance and couldn’t hear the words, but Silver’s tone was ominous and his message clear.
Stop the running man. Stop the man who’d killed the dead woman Silver had just found aboard his ship.
Roddy wouldn’t make it easy.
He knew that stopping and explaining what had happened and why he’d done it would make more sense from a legal perspective. And he knew that running from the scene of the crime—or, more accurately, the scene of the discovery of the crime—made him look guilty. And he knew he was innocent of Audrey’s murder. But he also knew, somehow, that Audrey’s death wasn’t Oswald’s concern. It was Deirdre’s absence. He’d not screamed anything about finding his dead lover aboard the ship, after all. He’d demanded to know Deirdre’s location.
And his tone had been… not fearful, but panicked. As if Roddy’s decision to smuggle Audrey’s body aboard to mask Deirdre’s absence, whatever his motivation, had ruined something. What had he called it? Something about a phoenix. Roddy didn’t know what the word phoenix meant, just that everything happening to him occurred due to a Phoenix Project. He only knew that Oswald seemed quite gleeful at the Project’s apparent completion.
And now Roddy had ruined some aspect of it, something critical to the true successful completion of that effort.
Despite his predicament, Roddy forced a faint smile.
Several uniformed guards burst from one of the open chambers to his left, shouting at him to stop. Roddy ignored them. He’d been moving at a dead sprint for several minutes, though, and even with his rigorous conditioning, he knew that he’d eventually succumb to fatigue.
He needed a place to hide, a place to recuperate, a place to figure out what was going on here, to figure out his best course of action. And while he’d love to stick around long enough to explore this space station and learn its history and secrets, he suspected he’d be far safer in the welcoming embrace of the planet. Even if it meant he’d need to confront his wife about her affair with that bastard Stephen.
Roddy risked a glance over his shoulder. The guards, apparently unused to the pursuit of escaping alleged criminals, had stopped running, opting instead to move at a brisk walking pace. The curvature of the ring meant that, in a few minutes, Roddy would be out of their sight.
He kept moving. The farther ahead he got, the less visibility they’d have, and the better
his chance to hide.
Three minutes later, he turned and looked once more. The few people he saw paid him no attention, perhaps accustomed to those living here running through the cavernous hallways for exercise. He wondered how large the population must be if the sight of a strange face gave them no pause or cause for concern.
He scanned the horizon behind him for the guards and saw no one. He turned and examined the nearest door. It was slightly ajar. No light emerged from the door, which suggested that the usual occupant was neither home nor particularly concerned about security. The nameplate read James Delaney. Roddy didn’t know who James Delaney might be and didn’t care, thankful only that he’d provided Roddy the place he needed. Roddy slipped through the open door and pushed it shut.
He bent over, sucking in copious amounts of air, trying to feed his burning lungs. The sweat dripped off him. He recovered quickly, and within a minute his pulse and respiratory rates had returned to normal. He noticed that the air had a sweet freshness to it, a welcome relief from the dry, stale air aboard the aircraft—spaceship?—he’d used in his travels to the space station. Roddy’s eyes adjusted to the faint light in the chamber and he glanced around.
He saw a small kitchen to his left, complete with a table and four chairs. He stood in a small entry foyer. General living quarters occupied the space to his right, furnished with a sofa, two chairs, a table, and a flat display screen hung on the wall. The entry extended as a hallway dividing the living area and kitchen space, and he could see a door opening into a space behind the kitchen, and another straight ahead. Both doors were closed.
Roddy moved forward carefully, stepping lightly to avoid making a sound as he moved down the hallway. He put his ear next to the door on the left, listening intently. Nothing. He stepped forward and repeated the process with the door ahead of him. He heard nothing. No, there was something. A steady ticking noise. A clock? That made sense. He assumed that room must be a bedroom, equipped with a clock that made a general ticking sound to mark the passing seconds.
Detonate (The Ravagers - Episode 2) Page 11