by Joe Hart
The door to the office bangs open, a middle-aged man in a lab coat who Zoey’s never seen before, at the threshold.
“We’re under attack! What do we do?”
Vivian gains her feet, wiping a bloody smear across her slacks. “Under attack? By who?”
“How the hell should I know? They bombed us or something. Where should I tell the staff to go?”
Vivian glances around the room, her eyes hovering on Zoey before moving back to the man. “Start emergency backup procedures. I want all data saved onto portable drives. Secure the incubation room. And tell every security personnel you see to report to level-five rooftop.”
“Yes ma’am.” He is gone in a swirl of his coat and they’re alone again.
Vivian raises the pistol slowly, aiming it in Zoey’s general direction. “You brought them here?”
“What? No, I—”
“You just told me we were going to be under attack and minutes later we are? That’s too much of a coincidence, Zoey.”
“I told you he knew the location. I didn’t know how close he was.”
Vivian seems to weigh something before motioning to the open door. “Move.”
Zoey rocks the crying infant but doesn’t move toward the hall. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to put both of you in a holding room until I can get control of the situation.”
“You’re not going to get control of the situation. Don’t you see? He’s here. His men will get inside.” Through the thick walls comes a faint popping sound, like the cracking of a stiff joint. Gunshots. She stares at her mother. “Do you hear that? They’re already fighting. Help me. Help me get her out of here. Please, if you ever really loved me, please help us.” She sways in place, trying to calm the baby who continues to cry, her face splotchy and red.
Vivian blinks, looking down at the pistol in her hand, then to the Director’s body. The room shudders around them and someone yells a curse out in the hallway as glass shatters.
“I won’t let it all be for nothing,” Vivian murmurs. She brings her head up and the gun follows. “Move. Now.”
Zoey’s heart drops as her mind careens through a dozen different options, all of them useless. “You’re not going to kill me. You need me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I need your eggs, Zoey, not you. So you can either do what I say or risk wounding your daughter.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Would you like to find out?”
She feels as if she’s going to faint. The baby has begun to quiet with her constant movement and is looking at the nearby wall with curiosity. Zoey searches for another way out but Vivian pulls the pistol slightly to the side and yanks the trigger.
Zoey jerks at the report, instinctively hugging the baby closer as stuffing flies from the couch to her left.
“Don’t test me, Zoey. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
Zoey looks from the dark circle of the gun’s barrel to her mother. “Yes I do.”
She turns toward the door and starts to take a step but stops and bends down, retrieving a book that’s fallen to the floor. Its cover is familiar, like seeing a friend’s face after being away from each other too long.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
She scans the cover, flipping it open with one hand. Needing to be sure.
There are several ragged edges where the pages have been torn out. She recalls the night she watched Dellert strip them free and drop them to the ground, destroying the one escape from the prison of her life. Her one salvation.
Salvation.
“I won’t tell you again, Zoey,” Vivian says. She nods, moving toward the hall. “And leave the book.”
Zoey pauses at the doorway and hefts the hardcover, feeling its weight, before facing her mother once again. “I always loved this story.”
“Quite symbolic that Cleric Asher gave it to you.”
“It kept me going most days. He knew me better than I knew myself.”
“Yes. Well, I hope it was worth the cost of his life.”
The baby wails and a muscle in Zoey’s arm twitches but she turns away, taking one step toward the door.
“Zoey, I said to leave th—”
Zoey spins, whipping the heavy book around as hard as she can.
Vivian’s gun hand is just where she knew it would be.
The tome connects with the back of her mother’s wrist.
The gun goes off before it flies free of her grip, the report loud enough to reignite the ringing in Zoey’s ears.
Vivian yells something incoherent and tries to launch herself forward, but Zoey’s already driving the hard spine of the book at her face.
It smashes into Vivian’s nose with an audible snap.
The older woman rocks back on her heels as if she’s hit a wall. Blood gushes from both nostrils and she brings a hand up as if to touch the injury, but doesn’t.
Zoey takes a single step and flings a hard kick into her mother’s solar plexus.
Vivian staggers backward and slips in the congealing pool of the Director’s blood. Her feet kick out from beneath her and she falls, the back of her head connecting with the low table between the chairs.
There is a sickening, fleshy thud, and Vivian drops to her side and lies still.
Zoey takes in a shaky breath. Her daughter squalls again, one of her small feet digging into Zoey’s ribs.
“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” She leans in, kissing the girl lightly on the forehead before retrieving the pistol. A subtle burning begins to enter her shoulder and she glances at it, surprised to see a slick of bright blood there. The bullet must have grazed her but she hadn’t felt it. She works her arm and, besides the pain, it moves without issue.
Moving to the couch she gently lays her daughter down, tucking her in the valley of two cushions before crossing the gap to Vivian. She kneels over her mother, noting the dribble of blood leaking from the back of her head. Grasping her shoulder, she rolls her over and checks for a pulse at her neck. It is there, fast but steady. On her wrist Zoey sees a bracelet much like the one she used to wear except for a small clasp on the bottom. She presses it and the bracelet opens, slipping off the other woman’s arm easily.
She begins to rise, knowing she needs to run, to get her daughter and herself out of the ARC, but she pauses for a moment, held there in limbo by a pang of remorse.
There is something deeply tragic about this woman, and despite the blood coating the lower half of her face, Zoey recognizes a hint of herself now. Perhaps it’s her imagination, or maybe it was always there and she chose not to see it.
Her daughter cries, and beyond the walls comes an erratic string of gunfire.
They have to go. Now.
She starts to turn away but one of Vivian’s hands shoots out, grasping her wrist with shocking strength. Her eyes, crazed and bloodshot, spring open and find Zoey’s. “You had a chance to save the species.” Bloody spittle sprays from her lips. “And you missed it.”
Zoey grits her teeth, resisting the pull of Vivian’s arm before leaning closer. “You had a chance to be my mother.”
She yanks her wrist away and walks to the couch, gathering her daughter in her arms before moving to the hall.
“Zoey! Zoey! Zoey!”
She slams the door on Vivian’s screams, silencing them to mutters.
The hallway is devoid of life, the stairs leading up and to the left toward the roof dark except for a single emergency light. Down the corridor is the set of doors she recalls from her first escape. In the center of the hall a light fixture has fallen from its mount, glass littering the floor in a semicircle.
She hurries to the doors and scans the bracelet that’s sticky with blood. The door clicks open and she steps through, hugging her daughter close while sweeping the area ahead with the pistol.
She comes to the T in the hall. Straight ahead a dead end. To the right the glass-fronted laboratory, quiet and still. To the left the elevat
or.
Zoey presses the button on the wall, glancing back the way she came, all the while continuing to shift back and forth with the baby. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.” She says the words even as the voice in her head tells her she has no idea if this is true while also reminding her she doesn’t know what she’s doing. “Then we’ll figure it out, right? You and me, we’ll figure it out together.” The girl hiccups several times but slowly focuses on her, a shaky sigh coming from her chest that is part cry and part gurgle. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.” The baby’s mouth quirks slightly, almost a smile.
Zoey starts to return it when something round and cold presses against the back of her neck.
“Drop the gun.”
She hesitates, wondering how fast she can move without hurting the baby.
The metallic click of the hammer being drawn back echoes in the corridor. “Do it.”
She lets the pistol drop to the floor. It’s kicked away at once, spinning to a stop a dozen feet down the hall. The gun’s barrel leaves her neck and she takes a step, turning to look at her captor.
Doctor Calvin holds the pistol in both hands, a cruel mockery of a grin on his face. “Got the better of her, huh? Doesn’t surprise me. You’re something, Zoey. I always knew you were special.”
The elevator pings, drawing their attention as its doors glide open. Four men step out into the open. The first two are Redeyes, the next a guard wearing a thick tactical vest loaded with ammunition.
And the last is Reaper.
He wears a dark uniform and polished black boots. Only his colorless eyes are visible above the mask she knows covers his ruined features.
Everyone stops in place, the situation taking on the quality of a painting.
“I caught her trying to escape,” Calvin says. “She probably killed or injured Vivian.”
Reaper shoots a look at her and her insides shrivel as she clutches the baby tighter.
Here he is, the monster of her nightmares. She cannot recall ever fearing or loathing another human being more in her life.
“Get to the roof and provide covering fire over the gap in the wall,” Reaper says, still looking at her. “Repel the boats and tell McGarry to start evacuation procedures.”
The Redeyes and single guard hurry away down the corridor, scanning through the doorway, and are gone. The floor vibrates and a resounding blast comes from the south before the quick patter of gunshots continues like rain against a window.
“Where do you want me to put her?” Calvin says, glancing from Reaper to Zoey. Reaper moves toward the doctor, stopping by his side to face her once more. “Holding room or should I bring her to the roof for evacuation?”
“You performed her ovum extraction prior to her escape, correct?” Reaper asks.
A look of pride forms on Calvin’s face. “Yes I did, sir.”
“I thought so.”
With a movement so fast Zoey can barely follow it, Reaper swings his right forearm toward the doctor’s neck and slams his palm into the top of his head on the opposite side.
Calvin’s skull snaps to a hideous angle, the vertebrae in his neck breaking with the sound of a dry branch.
Zoey lets out a startled cry, her eyes widening as the doctor’s gun clatters to the floor and his body follows a second later.
Reaper stands over him and glances up at her, his gray gaze unblinking. “Follow me.”
He strides away from the elevator toward the lab. Zoey watches him go, looking back to the elevator doors and down to Calvin’s motionless body, rooted in place.
“Zoey, please. There’s not much time,” he says, motioning toward the right doorway at the end of the hall.
Indecision holds her in place for another moment before the baby coos, breaking her free.
She hurries toward Reaper, trying to ready herself for a trap as her mind replays what just happened. He disappears into the room as she nears, and now she remembers what’s inside the area.
Rows of opaque tanks, the artificial wombs where both of her daughters were grown. In the center the tower with oscillating lights shimmers, its shape and aura almost like a sentient presence. To the left Reaper is working at a panel full of electronics, its face lined with dials and monitors. There is an abrupt clacking sound and the panel swings forward and now she sees it is only a false representation. Behind it is a narrow doorway that opens as Reaper touches a button set into its frame.
Another elevator.
“Get in,” he says, stepping out of the way.
She barely hesitates. None of this makes sense.
As she huddles into one corner Reaper steps inside the small space and punches another button on a panel. The door slips shut without a sound.
They descend.
“Where are you taking us?” she asks, her voice loud in the steel enclosure.
“We’re almost there.”
Their motion slows. Stops.
The door opens to a narrow concrete tunnel without windows, a sparse line of industrial lights running along its ceiling. A guard stands with his back to them, rifle unslung and ready. As they step into the tunnel he turns, his entire body going rigid before recognition enters his eyes.
“Sir, it’s you. What—” The guard looks at her. Down to the baby. Back to Reaper. “Sir, what the hell are you doing?”
Reaper takes a step forward and the guard raises his weapon.
Again, the blur of motion as he moves, stepping into and past the younger man’s weapon before he can fire. His fist sinks into the guard’s throat, knocking him into the wall. The guard rebounds, legs going slack as Reaper catches his weight and tosses him to the cement where he lands in a heap.
The guard’s weapon clatters away and its owner lies still.
Reaper straightens, his breathing making his back heave slightly. Zoey finds herself pressed against the opposite wall, the baby beginning to fuss again in her arms. He faces her and there is something in his gaze that catches her off guard. A softness. Almost like . . .
He points down the tunnel. “Follow it to the end and you’ll find a staircase leading up. The code on the door is 3172021.”
She pushes away from the wall and takes a tentative step, half sure he will suddenly grab her and force her back into the elevator, the last three minutes some kind of cruel joke. So when she tries to move by him and he raises a hand toward her, she flinches, holding the baby out of his reach.
But instead of grasping her, his hand opens, fingers only inches away from the side of her face. He moves as if to touch her and she shrinks back. His hand hovers there, trembling faintly before he drops it to his side.
“I’m so sorry, Zoey.” His voice is raw and defeated. The mask he wears shifts as if he is trying to say something more before he looks away and strides to the elevator. She watches him go, a strange sensation stealing over her almost like the feeling of the current while standing knee-deep in a stream.
The door slides closed, gradually hiding him from her sight until he is gone.
The elevator hums before fading away.
Zoey wavers on the spot, feeling the edge of an epiphany in her mind, its shape concealed beneath gauzy layers of confusion and denial. But as she tries to pull away the cover, it breaks apart and recedes into a vague sense of sadness she doesn’t understand.
The baby squalls, hiccupping herself into a full-blown cry.
The guard on the floor moans, one hand sliding across the concrete.
Zoey runs.
The tunnel travels gradually downward before leveling out. She tries to listen for sounds of the battle somewhere above her but there is nothing but the sound of the child, the pounding of her slippered feet, and the harried rush of blood in her ears.
A staircase materializes a hundred yards ahead. It is steel and concrete, perhaps a dozen steps. A reinforced door rests at its top and on the wall beside it a digital panel glows green.
She takes the steps two at a time, sliding to a stop on the to
p landing. Her finger pauses over the buttons. The code. What was the code? She had been so stunned by Reaper’s actions she hadn’t truly been listening. But there had been something deeply familiar about them for some reason.
3172021.
The code comes rushing back with a ferocity that nearly staggers her.
Because those numbers are one of the first things she was ever required to remember.
Her birthdate.
She spins, looking back down the silent tunnel but the elevator is gone. Gone like the man who led her out. Gone like Vivian had said he was.
A pulsating thrum comes from somewhere above her and a stream of dust drops from the ceiling. She faces the panel once again, fingers shaking so badly it takes three tries to enter in the code correctly.
The door unlocks, easing away from her on oiled hinges, and she steps through it into the raging sounds of battle.
56
Merrill, Tia, and Newton leapfrog between the buildings, timing their movements within the staccato beat of gunfire.
They are almost to the water, its surface a disturbed plain of waves and foam in the morning light. The sun hinted at an appearance after clearing the horizon but now is lost behind the crumpled curtain of clouds that coats the sky.
A bullet whizzes by Merrill’s face, close enough to feel the air displaced by its passage. He leans back behind the tree they crouch next to. Hiraku’s army has solidified from shadows into the men they are, all of them pushing forward after the initial attack on the ARC and the subsequent destruction of the dam. They are all around them now, squads scurrying from house to house, coming nearer to the river’s edge where the heaviest fighting is going on.
Merrill peers around the tree again.
The soaring hole in the side of the ARC is lined with men, the muzzles of their rifles flashing continuously. On the shore the invading force has taken cover behind several rock walls and benches that overlook the water. Tracers zoom back and forth, their color almost lost in the daylight. But it’s the dam that captures his attention.
Two waterfalls gush from the upper portion of the hole the drone left in its wake. He has no idea how many feet thick the structure is, but the blasts from the missiles must’ve been beyond powerful. The crater is at least sixty feet deep and over three hundred feet long. As he watches, several pieces of jagged concrete crumble beneath the water’s pressure and fall, bouncing and tumbling into the river.