Lost in a sea of advancing Bobs, we’re swept along despite my strong urge to hold back. We’re charging into battle whether we like it or not. But who are we fighting? That’s what I’d like to know. If this place has intruders, that means enemies of the Association, in other words—our allies.
The mob forges ahead, waving weapons and hollering, with us hopelessly jammed in with the goons. I’m reminded of soldiers charging across a battlefield, sparking memories I’d rather not look at right now, especially the terror each holds. The present is terrifying enough. Might we step aside and let the Bobs fight their own battle?
Too many past experiences cry out, No! All fueled by grisly visions of our untimely end. Transferring out of the infantry to become a combat engineer was for good reason—sneak around and wiggle out of tight spots instead of thrown at them head-on. I am not a number, just another soldier, an expendable portion of a larger force.
Ahead, the hallway intersects another where the front-line troops turn, heading into the next corridor. Beyond the corner, cracking snaps and brilliant flashes brighten the coming passage. Charred bodies soar back and litter the floor, prompting the mob to slow their advance. Yeah, a good idea, since your buddies up front just got toasted.
Electrobeams streak past and deafening snaps torture my ears. The armaments around the corner are something new. In contrast to the thin stick blast rifles favored by the goons, whatever the intruders are packing, their weapons lack the familiar whizzing, rather sound more like a whip cracking, followed by a whoosh that ends in a sizzle. Even greater contrast is the result—the poor bastards who turned the corner came back in pieces tough to identify. Unlike the Bobs I zapped before, these guys aren’t getting up to straighten their jackets, ever.
More Bobs push through the crowd, advancing to the front line, equipped with body armor, helmets, and handheld cannons. They pass the rest of us unprotected fools and turn the corner. After a volley of weapons fire, a smaller few of the armored troops come soaring back, bloody and sizzling. They did better, but not by much.
An armored soldier calls out, “Fall in behind.”
The goon patrol shuffles forward. Against every effort to hold back, we’re swept along with the rest, destined for certain death by hideous dismemberment. How will I find a new body?
The column reaches the corner and flows around, into the next corridor, identical to the last other than filled with a tangle of scorching beams cutting down Bobs left, right, and center. The intruders wear snug bodysuits all black, complete with gloves and tight cloth clinging to their heads, like ski masks that hide all but eyes and mouth. Some tend to massive cannons that generate the ear-shattering snaps, and others armed with blast pistols scale the walls like spiders, deftly evading Bobs and their lousy aim while striking back with deadly accuracy. These guys are good, crack shots and unusual tactics. What seems disconcerted independent action is actually an illusion. In fact, the intruders are tightly coordinated, yet the Bobs would never suspect as they struggle to follow the seemingly random formations. But I recognize it. I know these tactics.
“Fire your weapon,” a Bob calls out from behind.
Right, I’m a bad guy today, and should be firing before we appear out of place, sure to be exposed as spies, or at a minimum, harshly disciplined for severe lack of courage in the line of duty. But I can’t fire at my allies. As a compromise, I let off a few stray rounds, aimed carelessly at the walls and ceiling, even a couple—completely by accident of course—landing squarely in the backs of my pretend comrades. These things happen in the chaos of battle. Dave follows my example, blasting the hallway, not to mention a Bob now and then, which no one seems to notice. Most of the confused troops are doing the same themselves.
Engaging in battle, against allies or otherwise, was not part of the plan. Time for this nightmare to end. I signal for Dave to follow and struggle to the side, forcing our way across the advancing horde. An approaching door is our only escape from this insanity. The mob charges ahead and the door draws near. We shove and claw our way through the goons, the door bursts open, and a flood of reinforcements emerge from a stairwell.
We squeeze between an endless stream of agents and get past the doorway, then fight our way up the stairs. The flow thins and we quicken our ascent, passing a few stragglers.
One of them snatches hold of me. “Hey,” Bob says, rattling my jacket. “Where are you going? The intruders are downstairs.”
A few steps higher, Dave turns back. “There’s more on level five. Hurry!” He sprints up the steps. With Bob distracted, I get loose and catch up with Dave. Round we go up the stairs, and turning onto the next flight, I notice someone close behind. Bob is following us.
At level five we burst from the stairwell, our wannabe friend right on our heels. The hallway is identical to downstairs, same gleaming tile, the same bare walls. A duplicate in every detail, except this hallway is deserted.
“What are you talking about?” Bob says. “Nobody’s up here.”
I whirl around. “Look, pal, we’re on a secret mission, okay? So if you want to stay out of trouble, you’d better run along now and join your buddies downstairs.”
“You know,” Dave says, “it won’t stay a secret if you keep telling everyone.”
An electrobeam streaks past, raising the sparse hair clinging to my scalp. A wall explodes and plaster sprays the floor. I duck and spin around, only to discover intruders closing the distance. Dave was right about more on level five, and we just found them. The stealthy warriors match those downstairs, the same black bodysuits and ski masks that hide their faces.
Vastly outnumbered, retreat is our only option. Joined by our unwelcome tagalong Bob, Dave and I flee the opposite direction. We are met by a second batch of intruders, weapons raised to a deadly aim. I slide to a halt.
“Drop your weapons,” an intruder calls out.
No fair. I finally get a weapon, now I have to give it up. Not fair at all. Confronted by a dozen blast rifles held at a steady aim, there is no other choice. Over my shoulder, another dozen confirms our lack of options. Dave nods, and together we let our weapons slip to the floor.
Bob has other ideas. Like some stupid ambition to be a hero. He unholsters a blast pistol, as if he’s some hotshot bad-ass.
“No!” I dive for his pistol. I don’t care to be caught in the crossfire when the intruders dissect this idiot with shards of light. I strike his arm and deflect his aim, but he pulls the trigger anyway, weapon point-blank, and blasts a crater where we stand.
Thrown airborne, I crash to the floor along with chunks of it, then rocket across the smooth tile and collide headfirst with a wall. Not what I had in mind for today, not at all. Maybe if I close my eyes and make a wish, and really try, I’ll wake up for the fourth time—for real this time—and none of this will be happening.
* * *
The lump crowning my skull is real, the two dozen intruders are real, and the dumb-ass, Bob, who so effectively struck his target, only confirms reality. I doubt my imagination is capable of manufacturing anyone that stupid. To wish all this was just a bad dream isn’t going to work, because it’s not.
Wishful thinking is useless, and that’s all my plan has turned out to be—an exercise in wishful thinking. To imagine I would simply walk in here and find Christina. Yeah, I’m dreaming all right.
The intruders close rank and surround us. One searches my pockets while six others hold rifles at a close aim.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Shut up!” The butt of his rifle smacks my jaw, knocking me into a wall and crashing to the floor. He yanks me up to resume the search, and he’s not gentle about it, jerking me all directions while tearing through my pockets. He finds the computer printout with coordinates, figures it’s trash and stuffs it back in my pocket, then dives into another and pulls out my identification badge.
He spins around. “Try this one,” he calls to a band of approaching intruders, one burdened by a large backpac
k.
“It’s not any good,” I say. “It’s a fake.”
He whirls around, glaring viciously through his mask, and pounds his rifle into my belly. Doubled over and gasping for breath, I struggle to understand why he has to be so mean. Is everyone in the universe out to beat me senseless? I thought the Bobs were bad. My allies aren’t any better.
The badge-stealing intruder tosses my identification to the fellow with the backpack, who slips it off and pulls out a portable computer. He runs my badge through a card reader, studies the screen, then looks up. “Perfect, unrestricted. This will work.”
Back on my feet, I say, “You know, guys, it may not look like it, but actually, I’m on your side. If you tell me what you’re after, maybe I can help.”
Again my jaw is clobbered, and another rifle pounds my stomach. On my knees, I silently scream for air to replace the wind knocked out of me. I catch some breath, massage my battered jaw, and decide that will be quite enough.
I stand tall. “Now look here! I’m not the enemy.”
Here comes the butt of his rifle.
I do not agree.
“Stop!”
My open palm meets the blunt end of his weapon, bringing it to a sharp halt, while my intent stare locks on the eyes hiding behind the mask.
“You will not hit me again, is that clear?”
The intruder releases the rifle like it’s on fire, and with a snap of my wrist, I flick it away. It hits the floor and slides across, just as I saw it doing only moments before it did.
He steps back and others follow, some retreating two steps as they huddle closer together. A silence passes as the group stares at me, it seems in awe. Then one pushes through the crowd, uniformed as the rest, the same black bodysuit and ski mask.
“Adam?”
Who is this? My next inflictor of pain? But she called my name. This person knows who I am. She steps closer, and I search for a recognizable identity, but the black cloth clinging to her face hides all clues except for soft lips and—tender blue eyes.
* * *
The entire universe melts from view, my darling the only sight I care for. The walls ripple and fade, the floor a spread of misty clouds, the ceiling as tall as the sky. Like falling from the heavens to land in her arms, for one tiny moment, reality does not exist. Only my precious love.
She rolls the mask up and off, and her rusty hair spills out. One flick of her pretty head, she puts the mane in place, then focuses on me. She looks disappointed.
“What happened to your hair?” she asks.
“Long story.”
“And your beard?”
“Same story.”
She gazes at me like I’m a stranger, or a bad copy. Considering the costume, I am a copy, and bad.
“Is it really you?” she asks, a tilt of her head as she studies me.
Come on, I don’t look that different. I didn’t realize a visit to the salon could kill it for us.
“Christina, trust me. I am me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Tell me the three magic words, the special way.”
Great. My memory’s whacked, leaving me to guess and risk losing the woman of my dreams, all because I fail a quiz. But as they say, better to fail trying than to fail by not.
I gaze into her tender blue eyes and convey with the utmost sincerity, “I love you.”
Her stare holds steady—no reaction. Come on, that was special, and has to be the right three words.
Her lips curl toward a sweet grin. She removes her gloves and reaches out to my cheek, her soft fingers sliding across, then caressing my neck. That’s a nice touch. Please, more.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she says, her gaze imparting the playful, though clever tease. “I want to know it.”
Fingers clinging to my neck, she tugs gently, and her loving gaze becomes dreamy. Oh my, I’m trembling. I can’t control myself. Nearing a kiss, my eyes fall closed.
“Our objective is reached, Commander. We must depart immediately.”
Lips puckered and ready to go, I crack one eye open. An intruder has yanked her away. Hey, can’t you see we’re having a moment here? Distracted from the kiss, Christina changes instantly—tender lover turned deadly warrior.
“Of course,” she says, suddenly all business. “Gather the troops and proceed to the rendezvous. Contact the admiral and let him know we have Adam. That will set his mind at ease.”
She takes my hand and tugs, urging me to follow, to which I respond with an equally fierce tug holding her back.
“Adam!” she scolds, then a lover’s grin sneaking out. “We’ll get to that later. We have to go now.”
“Right, but what about him?” I indicate our self-appointed buddy, Bob, who wrestles in the arms of intruders restraining him.
Christina pulls a small device from her belt, advances on Bob, and applies the gadget to his neck. A buzzing sound results and his worthless body slumps to the floor. I’m a bit surprised at how easy that was.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
What’s wrong with me? I wanted them all dead a minute ago.
“No, you goof. I just made him sleepy for a while. What about that one?”
“That’s Dave.”
“David?” She rushes closer and gives him a hug, just as the intruders release him, realizing that he’s one of us.
Dave unleashes that big white grin. “Hi, Chris. Nice to see you again.”
She steps back and studies him. “David, you look like . . .”
He scowls. “Like what?” He glares at me, then back to her.
One hand over her mouth, she giggles. “Like a penis.”
Dave glares hard—at me.
* * *
We climb a stairwell leading to the rooftop, the rendezvous. Rebel intruders laden with weaponry storm upward, a concert of hurried boot-steps. Christina leads the way, climbing ahead of me as I indulge in each precise movement of her magnificent body, my thoughts chasing after her, catching up to a reality in which I am so near my greatest treasure. It’s too good to be true. Continuing toward our goal, she repeatedly looks over her shoulder to see that I am following, and she smiles. Each time she glances, I’m awarded the glorious vision of the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. More than physical—what she is, how she moves, the things she says, even what she thinks. All perfect, if there could ever be such a thing. Perhaps not for everyone, but for this man, there is no question—Christina is my perfect.
She asks, “Why are you dressed like them?”
“To sneak in and rescue you.”
“I already escaped,” she says, like it’s no big deal.
I vault up extra steps and continue climbing at her side. “Then why the hell are you back?”
“To sneak in and rescue you.”
Dave hurries up the steps behind us. “You two should talk more. I would’ve preferred staying home, you know, instead of risking my neck for no good reason.”
Christina keeps climbing, silent and gazing at me as I return the same. There is no need for words, our thoughts speak volumes. Yes, she agrees, there is much to talk about now that we’re together again. But first we must escape this evil place, and more so, return home to where it is safe, and where we can endlessly meld in each other’s loving arms. She reaches out and we continue up the steps, hand in hand. The simple embrace is amazing, her soft skin to mine a marvelous sensation capable of setting the entire universe at rest. Well, my universe. My every thought is calm, I am confident and free from all worry. With her hand in mine, I can do anything, and succeed.
Now I will.
* * *
The stairwell ends at a single door that opens to the rooftop. The sky is blackened by a swarm of craft, Association and rebel, swooping, diving, and blasting. A chilly wind cuts to the bone, slapping so violent I must struggle for balance.
I shout above the powerful gusts, “What’s going on? All-out war?”
Christina clears scattered hair from her view. “Just
a diversion until we could find you.”
One hell of a diversion. Good thing I was here.
A sonorous humming overtakes the howling wind—a large craft drops from the sky. It hovers just above the rooftop, engines whining, then an enormous hatch slides open. Beyond the hatchway is a cavernous compartment roomy enough for the rebel intruders and all their gear.
Troops stream from the stairwell, out the door, and hurry toward the waiting transport. The minor structure they flow from is no larger than the stairwell it covers, and it’s the only projection rising from the rooftop, an entirely flat area lacking even a parapet. In the absence of safeties near the edge, apprehension brews—avoid the perimeter.
Christina stands at the door, guiding troops through. A respected commander leaves no soldier behind. When the last emerge, she brings up the rear. The flow of rebel intruders begins leaping into the transport. Dave scrambles aboard and hollers for me to join him, but I hold back.
“Hurry!” I call to her, the stretch between us feeling like a mile. I want her by my side.
She is not the last. Behind her, someone else steps out the open door.
* * *
He looks different since our last encounter, though I doubt he’s become any less evil. Still the devilish gleam in his eye, and rough start of a beard, but now he’s fashioned his hair in a spiky style. This time his attire is somewhat stylish—a long dark coat, over a pressed dress shirt black as night, finished with a soft gold tie.
“Leaving so soon?” Jared says, cocky as always, and holding a weapon in each hand.
Christina spins to face him, a fair distance between them, but closer to him than me. I start for her. She whirls around and sprints toward me.
Jared raises one of his weapons and takes aim. A thin strand streams from the barrel and slaps around her neck. A wire-gun. The restraint holds tight, snapping her back and crashing down. She springs up to regain footing, both hands at her neck, struggling to pry the cable free.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 29