by Arthur Stone
The conflagration’s light revealed Jupiter, as orange and massive as his planetary namesake. He sat perched on the edge of a roof, attentively peering into the square and its delicious all-he-could-eat buffet. One of the courses sighted him as Boiler did and screamed as if the monster’s teeth were already rending her to pieces. At that moment, the beast knew he was noticed and crashed down into the edge of the choir, mercifully interrupting the dreadful howling.
And replacing it with sounds of screaming and slaughter.
Boiler was riveted. The colossus moved with the speed of an arrow just released, his razor claws removing heads, dissecting intestines, and casting bodies aside into accumulating piles of skin bags of broken bones and blood-gushing meat. Some tried to shoot him, others screamed in subhuman terror, and others scattered in all directions, both the victims of the failed sacrifice and the Kildings themselves.
Two black twin vehicles tore away from the edge of the square, likely those which had brought Aurelia and the old hag. They accelerated to ludicrous speed, bolting between the blazing APC and the igniting “Suicide Truck.” A few seconds later, they had disappeared through the barricade and towards the roadblock. Boiler lost too much time watching them as things were changing rapidly in the square.
Jupiter’s trail of blood had grown, as the beast unpredictably surged from side to side, roaring furiously. Two machine guns pelted the pavement around him, sometimes hitting him, sometimes interrupting his movement, once even forcing him down. But even the irritating large-caliber rounds could not kill the creature. Some bypassed his metal armor, hitting the beast’s body and penetrating its bony plates. This coaxed the monster to move cunningly, evading the fire from the nearest vehicle by taking cover behind obstacles.
Gloom fired continuously, risking her weapon’s overheating, and none of the cultists thought to oppose her.
The Kildings had lost their way in the stream of terrifying circumstances. The darkness of night, the escaped elite, the burning vehicles, the fleeing prisoners, and the whirr of machine guns from all sides.
Clearly Smoker’s “mogul” had activated her own personal Rambo mode rather than flee for the roadblock. Boiler waved his hands desperately to get her attention. “Gloomy, over here! Quick!”
As if she could hear him from that distance and over that racket even if he had a hundred megaphones. What was he doing? How was he still alive? Not all of the Kildings had gone to hell, yet. The cultists were shooting at the liberated elite, yes, but some were now shooting in the direction of the headquarters, which meant they were shooting at Gloom.
As he watched the carnage, Boiler failed to see the vehicle approaching from the roadblock behind him. Only when the headlights lit the road beneath his feet did he whirl around and raise his shotgun. Blinded, had no idea who this could be or what he was driving. He took aim at the windshield on what he hoped was the driver’s side and pulled the trigger.
The car veered and slammed into the corner of the burning APC, bouncing off it and coming to a sideways halt across the road. Boiler broke his gun and hastily shoved two slugs inside. And just in time. That instant, someone fell from the passenger door so haphazardly that his machine gun began firing as he collapsed to the ground. He missed, but Boiler did not.
After the shot, he moved quickly to reload. One round had jammed in his gun, causing him to lose priceless time. A shadow hurled itself from the car at him and he desperately shoved another round into the cleared shotgun and snapped it close—but this time, he was too late.
The blow was brutal, knocking the weapon from his hand and flashing steel just in front of his face. His forehead and temples gushed hot blood, filling his eyes. Stumbling back, he attempted to see his enemy in his peripheral vision. It was Sting, the man he had fought with in the streets the day before. The man who had freed himself from his Dicer-guaranteed basement captivity in that guarded headquarters, beneath that steel hatch and that thick layer of reinforced concrete in a place that could withstand bombing runs and artillery fire but not this solitary saboteur.
“Well, look who it is!” Sting shouted in surprise, flicking blood from his knife blade. “You and I have unfinished business, boy. Your words were disrespectful, and I do not take kindly to such attitudes. I’ll have to do something about that. Don’t take it personally.”
“Thinking of offing yourself, then? Please do me a favor and start with your mouth so we can all limit our exposure to your blathering stupidity.”
Boiler spat out blood, tore open the laces holding the sheath on his back, and drew his sword.
“Quite a loud mouth for a ninja. And what is this obsession you have with other men’s mouths? Suspicious.” Sting shouted at someone just behind his opponent. “Madman! Don’t you dare try to steal my kill or you’ll blow us both up. I’ll deal with him!”
He grinned, gripped his knife in his palm, and moved towards Boiler with the poise of a deadly veteran. The latter did not bother to assume a blocking stance. Why should he? Swordplay was the art of swordsmen, and he was not one. Not yet. His talent was simpler. Ear wiggling.
The world stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jupiter leaping onto a truck where the machine gunner was hurrying to finish reloading. Judging by the despair on his face, he would be just a tiny bit too late to recommence firing. His ammunition had run out at the worst of all times, which had now become the time of his death. The square was strewn with corpses, and three cars burned on the far side of it. A submachine gun flared as it fired each round, the fastest movement Boiler could see in a world moving one frame at a time.
He was pushing his way through the oxygenated molasses of the atmosphere that pressed his body in from all sides. He would pay later for overexerting himself, he knew, but he had a lot to do and so little time. So many boxes to check. Reach Sting and inscribe his throat with a list of his objections to his arrogance. Then turn and see whom he had asked to stay out of the fight.
The unseen interloper would have strong opinions regarding what Boiler was about to do to Sting.
Time. Everything depended on time. Boiler could not drag this moment of speed out forever. He would collapse, as he had the last time. That would be the end—even if Gloom calmed herself and ceased her machine gun rampage, she would never come to collect his limp body. The Hive was a cruel world, and no one could risk a life of rescuing the weak.
The beginnings of a fatal sword wound soon adorned the side of his enemy’s flesh. He had to strain his muscles to inflict it, but with no more intensity than it took to walk. The steel would undergo extreme stress as it sliced through skin, muscle, and guts with unbelievable speed, but unlike the body it passed through, it would survive.
Sting still stood where he had at the start, his knife held ready to strike and his left palm outstretched in an apparent effort to slap his opponent out of balance with that kinetic hivegift of his. But his attempt was too late. The wound was indiscernible at this speed, and the man’s blood had no time to hastily exit its tunnels of imprisonment, but a vicious, twisting path had been cut by Boiler’s blade. If the man managed not to die instantly, he would at least fall into shock until he did.
Now for the other party. He had to move faster. The sands of his hourglass had almost completed their inexorable journey downwards, and his hearing began to ring with alarm.
He turned. He saw the other, standing at least fifty feet back, aiming straight at him.
Not with a pistol, unfortunately. Nor with a rifle. The moron was pointing a grenade launcher directly at him, rather than dealing with the raging Jupiter. Shooting so close a target would put his own life at risk from the shrapnel.
Boiler took another step, and another. He was done for. Darkness flooded into his vision, and teetering on the edge of the void, he returned to normal time. The world came to life, filled once more with the deafening noise of battle.
“Die!” the grenade launcher screamed, and Boiler realized the shot was imminent.
With incr
edible force of will, he slowed time once more. Giant bells pounded in his ears, and his vision began darkening immediately. The line of no return had been crossed, and unconsciousness would swiftly follow. There was no time. He was so close, yet so far.
Where had this half-wit even come from?
With the last of his strength, he leaped to the side in an attempt to abandon the paved area entirely. If his luck held out, the maneuver would send his unconscious body flying at least ten feet from where he had stood. His sword, meanwhile, took aimed flight straight at the frozen figure just as the first hints of flame began to emerge from the grenade launcher. Boiler was good at throwing things and had even trained with knives in his days of service, but how well projectile physics worked in slowtime was anyone’s guess. Perhaps the sword would hit its target. He had to try.
He involuntarily twisted as he flew, ending his conscious moments gazing at the square. The captives were fighting back the cultists. Some of those who had broken away had gotten their hands on weapons and were mowing down choirlings at near point-blank range. Others, still bound, were pummeling, mutilating, choking, and even biting the Kildings. Starring as a backdrop to the violence was Jupiter as he was just starting his oral decapitation of the machine gunner. I guess that’s what an elite looks like when it’s smiling.
An impermeable shroud of blackness fell over him.
Chapter 33
As darkness took him, Boiler cherished no optimistic delusions about his future. Every man hit by a grenade launcher required urgent, intense medical care to survive, and that was in the most fortunate of cases.
No doctors or nurses lived within dozens of miles of this place. Ambulances were non-existent, as were phones to call them; the only communications were within inhabited stable clusters. Whoever noticed signs of life from his tortured body would finish him off without a second thought. Even though the townspeople had been attacking the cultists, the tide of battle was not on their side. The attacks on Jupiter had all but ceased, and he had looked barely troubled by his injuries. Nothing could stop his blood harvest. Too small a square and too much death. Boiler believed he would never open his eyes again.
Yet he did. Well, not both eyes, but one of them. Either the other was missing, or his eyelashes were sealed shut with blood.
The first rays of the system’s Sun spread across the streets, the same old light shining on an entirely new townscape filled with bullet and shrapnel holes. Each square foot of the area in front of the headquarters building held enough spent ammunition for a sizable skirmish.
Boiler barely felt anything, but knew that moving would revitalize every pain nerve he possessed. He ignored that voice of reason and raised his head with a moan. Trying to rise, he collapsed into a screaming contortion act. Or a quietly groaning one, to outside observers.
He was in bad shape. Unable to use even his voice.
Yet rising was no pressing need. Something soft rested under his head, and his view, though limited, was acceptable. A rusted, thin device slipped into his awareness. It held a flat bag of transparent liquid coursing down through a thin plastic tube. Someone had jabbed him, or a neighbor of his, with an IV.
The landmarks in his field of vision included part of the square, the buildings beyond it, and several charred vehicular skeletons. Though they still emitted minor plumes of smoke, everything in them that could be burned had been. The truck that Jupiter had mounted as Boiler’s brain unmounted was still there, or at least, what was left of it, belching out more smoke than the other vehicles combined.
Dozens of bodies littered the ground. Some were butchered beyond recognition, while others might have been thought still alive. The latter likely would beat Boiler in any beauty contest, despite the binary difference in their vitality. Involuntary insecurity over his undoubtedly revolting appearance stepped into the river of his thoughts.
Movement in the corner of his vision startled him. It was his old stray acquaintance, alive and unharmed, sitting close by and occupying himself with the usual mandatory feline hygiene practices. The look on his face was peaceful, even serene, unafflicted by the sad physical state of the man who had done so much for him. Serene. Son of a bitch. He looked as though he had passed the night stuffing his face with grade A sour cream as he was visited by the prettiest pussy cats in all the Hive. A happier cat was nigh impossible to picture.
The invalid forced his stubborn tongue to turn his will into words. “Charcoal, you old bastard.”
At the sound of his human’s voice, Charcoal paused his lingual wash cycle, stared into Boiler’s eyes—or rather, his eye—and then turned away with indifference as if nothing had happened. “You could at least have woken me up when the invasion started, you know. I was counting on you to protect me during the night instead of chasing the ladies. Slutty tomcat.”
The cat’s eyes flickered, as if he was searching for justifications for his ill-advised and ill-timed debauchery. No, even he wasn’t clever enough to get out of this one. Then he spoke. So that’s it. I must be dying. My cat is talking with a human voice.
“Mother of... Looks like he’s waking up!”
The auditory hallucinations spoke true, at least. But his cat’s voice sounded familiar. He had heard him speak before? No, it had belonged to someone else.
A one-eyed sideways squint saw an overjoyed Nimbler approaching from the smoking ruins. “Don’t you dare move, Boiler. You’re awake, and that means you’ll make it. I’ve got something for you. One jab and we’ll be out of here, good to go.”
Boiler tried to say “wait,” but he only managed a whisper.
“Alright. What for?”
“Where—where did you come from? You left for the perimeter. I saw you go.”
“I changed my mind. The mines would’ve killed me, and besides, I would’ve missed the concert. You had the lead part, too. There was no way I was abandoning my godson again, especially for his concert, so I came back. You see how kind the Hive is to those who protect their friends, Boiler? Now instead of lying legless out by the perimeter, I’m alive and well, I found you, and hey, I’ve even got some new threads. This place is full of loot now.”
“No one—no one survived the square?”
“Hah! That would make us kingpins of the Hive’s weapon supply. These guns would have enough ammo to last a lifetime. No, plenty of people escaped the square. Both our people and Kildings. See that mess out by the roadblock? Some escapees even had time to carry loot off with them. Hell, some greedy bastard even took the mortar. I can’t believe the cars didn’t run you over as they flew out of here. A burning APC provided you with some cover, though, and you looked too dead to pay any attention to.”
“How do I look now?”
“Still dead.”
“Seeing how I’m alive, that man who shot the grenade launcher at me must look even worse. Come on, what kind of shape am I really in?”
“Grenade launcher? That explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your legs are wrecked.”
“Both gone?”
“No, they’re there, but in bad shape.”
“Come on, the truth now.”
“Both of them are mangled beyond recognition.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“My one leg kept getting wounded. Crossbows, metal shards, bullets. The other one, meanwhile, barely suffered a scratch. So I planned to cut the unlucky leg off, but now they’re balanced, so I’ll keep both.”
“Hah. At least you still have that dry humor of yours. That’s a good omen. I gave you a weak dose of spec. Gloom had a ton of the stuff, so thanks for not blowing her place up. I’ll give you another shot and it’ll feel great. You’ll fall into a painless sleep.” He made good on his promise immediately. “There you go—it’ll kick in after a minute. You’ll pass out and we’ll be off. So what is this cat doing here?”
“He’s mine. Name’s Charcoal.”
“Strong kitty. He’s looking at me l
ike he intends to burn me alive with his eyes. Must want me to feed him.”
“Why’d you shoot me up with that shit?”
“How else will I take you anywhere? You’re a skinless monster. I’m scared to touch you, to be honest. You’d die on the road. But with this, you’ll fall asleep and—well, a good dose of spec gives adults erotic dreams. Kids see Saturday morning cartoons instead, I hear. Based on our former conversation on the subject, though, you might be in the cartoon crowd. Never met somebody like you here before.”
“Is Gloom alive?”
“No clue.”
“Is the Suicide Truck still here?”
“No.”
“So she left. Abandoned me.”
“Even I abandoned you, so what did you expect from that freak? Gloomy was the craftiest person in Smoker, regardless of what she looked like. She’ll be alright. You wait here while I take one last look around.”
“Have you seen Jupiter? Is he dead?”
“Who’s Jupiter?”
“The elite they brought. He killed dozens of people right in this spot.”
Nimbler looked around. “He’s loose?”
“Something like that.”
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here! Now that you mention it, it’s obvious some of these bodies were mutilated by things other than bullets and grenades.”
“A machine gun wounded him pretty good.”
“He could be somewhere nearby, licking his wounds. Meaning he’ll want to eat, and hey, here we are, a couple of particularly tasty fellows. No, time for us to beat it. Come on, let’s go. Looks like that spec is weak sauce. Not working?”
“Nimbler, you don’t owe me anything. Go. I’ll be OK on my own.”
“Give it a rest, Boiler. I named you, abandoned you a few hours later, and since then spent my days drinking bitterly and tearing my hair out. I’ve lived here for over a year now—no, not lived, just existed like a tapeworm, another kind of parasite, but a useless one. I’ve lived my life all wrong so far. I have to break the system, make a change. So we’re leaving. Together. And I won’t hear any arguments.”