by Jacob Gowans
For a brief moment, everything stopped. Sammy stayed completely still, and the Thirteens froze, waiting to see if he would make a move. Sammy, however, was content to be patient. He saw a Thirteen’s fingers twitch and knew this would be the first one to fire. Sammy shifted his weight ever so slightly, turning his body as he did to put himself in between two Thirteens.
The moment the trigger finger twitched again, Sammy blast jumped up to the ceiling. The bullets flew under him harmlessly, striking the Thirteen behind Sammy twice in the chest. Now using hand blasts, Sammy pushed hard off the ceiling at an angle and landed directly in between two more Thirteens. He paused only long enough to allow them to fire at each other before blasting again. As he shot forward toward the wall to his left at an upward angle, the bullets passed through the space where he’d stood. One Thirteen took a bullet to the shoulder, the other dodged, receiving only a graze across his cheek.
Sammy hit the wall and bounced off. He jetted around so quickly the Thirteens couldn’t keep up. To protect himself, he kept his shields placed at angles providing the most coverage. He sent his body toward a Thirteen, who thought she had a good shot at hitting him. Sammy dropped his shields at the last instant and slammed his fist into her neck, crushing it. The sensation of breaking bones and cartilage under his blow was glorious. As she crumpled, he blasted away again.
Midair, Sammy saw in the holo-screen that a Thirteen had a gun trained on his back. Two upward blasts pushed Sammy back down to the floor, where he slid, shielding himself and shooting the syshée’s deadly barbs into another Thirteen. The sounds of firing guns and shrieking enemies assaulted his ears like an orchestra turned up too loud.
Less than three minutes left.
Die. All of you.
It was a game. The whole battle was a game, and Sammy held the best cards: speed, energy, superiority, strength, and intelligence. With all three of his anomalies, plus his precise training and formidable physique, how could he not? The Thirteens were always a step too late. The bullets always just missed him. The combination of his three anomalies made him better, uncatchable. It let him do things he normally couldn’t have done, bend himself, twist himself, throw himself, and break his own bones on their bodies without consequence.
A small voice inside his mind whispered, Stop this. There are consequences …
Sammy ignored the voice like he would a bee buzzing in his ear. The Thirteens did not go down without a struggle. Despite taking numerous shots to the chest or abdomen, they fought on. In some perverse way, Sammy found this admirable. But it didn’t stop him from killing them.
One minute left.
Sammy wasn’t going to make it in time. He had to just keep fighting and hope for the best. If his calculations were correct, the Joswang Tower would be fine.
Keep fighting to save Brickert. To win the war.
Wrong. You’re doing it because you enjoy it.
His heart rejoiced each time he saw the lights go out in their eyes, and he reveled in the way their fluids splashed across walls, ceiling, and floor as the syshée did its deadly work. At some point during the middle of the battle, his five minutes ran out and the bombs detonated. Sammy was so far below the earth that he heard no detonation. But he knew something had gone wrong when he felt the tremors in the building. If the bombs had been placed correctly, no tremors should have been felt this low in the structure. All the damage was supposed to be contained to the upper floors.
Sammy cursed. This building can’t come down. I didn’t plan it this way.
Six Thirteens still remained of the original ten. Two of them were badly injured, one of which had absolutely no chance at surviving the next twenty minutes without immediate medical attention. Sammy had eight rounds left in his last magazine.
One of the Thirteens paused to reload. As fast as he was, Sammy was faster and put a bullet in his throat. The Thirteen died as he finished reloading and fired one last bullet into the ceiling as he stumbled backward into the table where the camera sat. His body crashed and sent the camera to the floor and his gun clattered at Brickert’s blood speckled shoes. By then Sammy was already five meters away attacking two more Thirteens. Another tremor ran through the walls and floor. Sammy cursed again.
Can’t you wait until I’m finished?
He focused his energies on the two weakest Thirteens. The game was becoming easier now with so few players remaining. Boring almost. They gave up trying to surround Sammy, instead trying to shoot him with sporadic and chaotic movements and angles, using helter-skelter tactics in attempt to confuse him. But it didn’t work. They bounced off the walls, dove, jumped, and threw things at him. Sammy countered by keeping them off balance, never staying in place for more than a second or two.
One by one the remaining five fell. The first of them threw half of a broken dining table at Sammy. Sammy blasted it back, impaling the Thirteen on the metal leg, and finishing him off with a bullet to the head. Two other Thirteens became so enraged that they emptied their clips at Sammy from opposite sides while a third took careful aim at Sammy’s head, and the fourth tried to get back to his feet despite massive blood loss.
Sammy shielded the two on his left and right flank and waited until the last moment to jerk aside and avoid the bullets from the third Thirteen—something he could never have done without using the Anomaly Thirteen. The forward Thirteen adjusted and fired again while the other two reloaded. Sammy shot multiple blasts at the Thirteen, hitting him and shoving him backward into the wall. As Sammy got closer, the strength of his blasts increased. The blasts crushed the Thirteen’s body while behind Sammy the two Thirteens finished reloading and fired at his unprotected back. Again he surprised the Thirteens by jumping out of the way and leaving a crushed, defenseless enemy to receive the full fury of his brothers.
Three left, a gloating voice reminded him. Finish them.
Stop using the anomaly!
Sammy shielded with only his left hand now, the other held his syshée. Seven bullets. He fired at one Thirteen while blasting at the other. Both missed. He jumped with a medium blast and turned midair, firing the syshée twice at the one behind him, while shielding in the direction of the one he’d missed. One bullet struck the Thirteen’s shoulder while the other hit his lower abdomen.
“And then there was one,” Sammy said.
The Thirteen snarled at him. He was one of the more normal-looking Thirteens Sammy had seen. For some reason, this made Sammy hate him even more. Sammy flicked the safety of his syshée to the “on” position and dropped the gun. The Thirteen must have found this insulting because he roared with rage and shot at Sammy. Sammy taunted him with his blasts, mixing up shields and strikes to push around the Thirteen like a toy.
“Sa—y, hurry,” Al urged, his com signal distorted by the depth of the tower’s sublevels. “The b—ding is c—mpr—ised—! Get Bric— and get—!”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Sammy growled through gritted teeth. He continued to screw around with the Thirteen, keeping him off balance with blasts to his legs and chest.
Two veins bulged in the Thirteen’s forehead, another in his neck. His deep red eyes fixed murderously on Sammy’s throat, but he was powerless. Finally he charged, a stupid and reckless decision. Sammy stepped forward and clotheslined the Thirteen at the neck. Before the Thirteen could recover, Sammy sat on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The Thirteen bucked and tried to kick Sammy off, but Sammy punched him in the mouth.
Listen to Al. Get a grip on yourself.
Hitting the Thirteen sent a wave of bliss through Sammy. Nothing else mattered. He had no sense of self. No responsibility. No worries. Nothing. Just the euphoria of the violence. He hit the Thirteen a second time.
And a third.
And a fourth.
Someone moaned Sammy’s name, but he ignored the sound. His fists flew into the Thirteen’s jaw and skull, feeling bones break and shatter. Some of them might have been his. It didn’t matter. Blood flew and splattered with each bl
ow Sammy delivered. The Thirteen had stopped struggling, but this didn’t matter either.
Someone groaned Sammy’s name again, but he didn’t let it stop him. All the hatred and rage locked inside of him—in the darker side—poured out through his arms. It turned him into a machine, cold and powerful, capable of perpetual motion. He would go on forever, so long as he had something to strike, a target for his darkness.
A gun fired. It struck the Thirteen, but startled Sammy enough that he jerked back and looked around to find the source of the disturbance. Whoever did it would die. All he saw was Brickert slumped over on his knees in front of the chair. His face was unrecognizable from the swelling and bleeding. His chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. A gun dangled from his hand. Sammy charged his friend, ready to kill. He grabbed Brickert by the shirt, cocked his fist back, and let it fly. A bone broke beneath the blow. Then he punched again. He pulled back to do it a final time, to mash the face into a pulp.
DO IT! a voice told him. KILL!
Brickert’s eyes fluttered, but only one could open. The eye was unfocused, roving around the room until it finally fixed itself on Sammy.
“H—h—h—” Brickert struggled to speak. Each breath brought with it a wheezing sound, hollow and light. “Who … are … you?”
Sammy nearly dropped his best friend. The fog of darkness lifted from his mind. As the haze diminished, the pain grew. His hands, legs, ribs, and arms ached. His thumbs throbbed and seared with pain.
He tried to pick up Brickert, but his arm didn’t work properly. Blood soaked his shirt. He touched the center of it carefully. Pain radiated outward. Horrible pain. His mesh armor was in tatters. I was shot and didn’t even notice. Regardless of how Sammy felt, it was nothing compared to how Brickert looked. Large purple and black bruises colored whatever wasn’t covered in blood. His left arm hung at a weird angle. Sammy had never seen anyone so beaten.
“Come on, Brick,” he said as he knelt down to lift his friend. “We can do this.”
The shooting agony brought tears to Sammy’s eyes as he pulled his friend up and over his shoulder. He breathed through his nose in sharp, forceful draws. His first three steps were staggers as he stumbled toward the doorway. When he reached the hall, the building shook again. Needles stabbed his legs with each step he took toward the elevator. Sammy’s eyes stayed locked on his target, allowing himself to see nothing else.
Another quake under his feet nearly sent him to his knees.
“Leave me,” Brickert whispered behind him. “You can’t … save … us both.”
“Yes, I can,” Sammy grunted back. “Now shut up and don’t die.”
Bracing himself on the filthy walls, Sammy lurched step after step until he slammed against the elevator doors. Holding Brickert with one hand, he reached out and pressed the call button to go up.
“Hold on,” he whispered. “Just … hold on … buddy.”
He counted the seconds silently until the elevator arrived. When he reached nine, he heard a soft ping.
Thank you.
The doors closed behind Sammy, and the elevator began its ascent to the lobby. Sammy eased Brickert off his shoulder and lowered him to the floor. “You still with me?” he asked Brickert.
Brickert gave no response.
“Brickert?” Sammy gave him a gentle shake, but still Brickert didn’t answer. Sammy checked Brickert’s wrist and found no pulse. His trembling hands moved to Brickert’s neck. Please, please, please.
The elevator stopped. They hadn’t reached the ground floor. Sammy jammed the button again, but the elevator didn’t budge. He slammed his fist against the panel. A robotic operator’s voice came over the intercom: “Due to building instability, elevator use is suspended until further notice. Please use the stairs. Please do not attack or damage the elevator as it will not improve your situation.”
Sammy spoke into his com. “Al, can you hear me?”
“Barely. Where are you?”
“I’m stuck in the elevator! I need help.”
“You’re cutting in and out. What do you need?”
“HELP! I need your help!”
“Okay. What can I do?”
“Are you still in the building?”
“No one’s in the building, Sammy. It’s coming down soon. You have to get out!”
“I’m trying to get out!” Sammy screamed. “I need you to open the elevator doors on the ground floor. Can you do that?”
“Open the ground door?”
Sammy repeated his request, barely keeping his cool.
“Yes—yes, I can do that, but you have to hurry.”
Sammy blasted open the top escape hatch of the elevator car. It was too dark to see how far up the doors were. Doesn’t matter. I have to make this right. Sammy grabbed Brickert and lifted him up high.
He yelled at the top of his lungs as stabs of pain ripped through his arm and burned thumb. He shot blasts from his feet until he was high enough off the ground that he could push Brickert up through the hatch. Fresh tears blinded him, but he continued to heft his friend’s weight until Brickert rested on top of the elevator. Then Sammy climbed out, sat next to Brickert, and wiped his eyes with his better arm.
“Hold on, buddy.” He placed his hand on Brickert’s head. “I’m going to take care of you. Just hold on.”
“Sammy, I’m in the building,” Al reported. “It’s bad. We gotta be fast. Be ready to move as soon as I pop open these doors.”
“Copy that.”
Sammy used the elevator cables to pull himself back to a standing position, ignoring his body’s protests. Then he picked Brickert up again and trained his eyes on the darkness above him. In those few seconds, he noticed how it never ended, the blackness. It was limitless and consuming.
“Don’t die, Brickert.” His words tasted hot and bitter, filled with guilt.
A shaft of light appeared almost thirty meters above them. After turning on his own com light, Sammy wasted no time jump blasting toward it. Carrying Brickert severely reduced the height of his blast jumps, forcing Sammy to adjust in midair. He bounced from wall to wall, gradually scaling the distance to the elevator doors on the ground floor. The space between the doors widened, and more light filled the shaft. The better Sammy could see, the more confident he felt in his blasts.
“Hurry!” Al shouted from above.
Sammy could not go any faster. The tremors in the building grew worse. The pain in Sammy’s limbs grew worse. The quaking in his arms grew worse. At one point, Sammy’s body nearly gave up and he barely hung onto Brickert. It was too much. He could hardly summon the strength to blast. He thought of everyone who had helped him, sacrificed for him, enabled him to be where he was. He called on their strength and reached the elevator doors.
Al was there to help him. The moment Al reached Brickert to take him from Sammy, a ghastly haunted noise rang through the walls, reverberating so powerfully that it deafened Sammy. The sound surrounded and filled him with its high-pitched groans as steel folded on steel and the structure collapsed on itself.
Debris fell from above as Sammy, still carrying his best friend, ran behind Al toward the doors. Before they could reach them, a massive chunk of the ceiling crashed onto the floor, blocking their path.
“This way!” Al yelled.
Sammy huffed and stumbled after his friend. He tried to ask Al to take Brickert for him, but couldn’t find the breath to speak. A tremendous roar came from the building followed by a monstrous tremor that did not stop. Al sprinted toward the nearest bay window and shot at it several times until the glass shattered. With his blasts, he blew away any remaining shards. “Go, Sammy! GO!”
Sammy hurried forward and jumped through the window. Al followed behind. They didn’t stop once they hit the street, but kept running until they reached the stealth cruisers parked in the road. Behind them, the Joswang Tower began to crumble.
Ice filled Sammy’s gut. How many people did we estimate could be in the building during these ho
urs? “God help us,” he said. “What have I done?”
4. Hyding
Friday, May 9, 2087
SAMMY SAT NEXT to Brickert’s bed with a book balanced by the cast on his left arm. His friend lay still on his left side with his eyes closed; a breathing tube snaked down his mouth and throat while I.V. catheters went into his arms. Other than Sammy’s voice, the only other sounds were the reports from the monitors connected to Brickert, speaking in their monotonous, repetitive language of beeps.
“‘There was something strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of—’”
Sammy sighed and paused to set the book down on his cast so he could rub his eyes with his good hand. Somehow this made his vision worse and everything in the room was a blur. So he rubbed harder, his skin making a wet sucking sound. Fortunately his burned thumb was almost completely healed and only dully ached. The effort left him so exhausted that he had to rest a moment before going back to the book.
He hadn’t slept well before Detroit, but since returning sleep had become impossible. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Brickert beaten, bloody, bruised, and barely clinging to life. Half the time, in his dreams, Sammy tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate his best friend. The other half, he wrapped his own bleeding hands around Brickert’s neck and choked the life out of him.
Not a night had passed that he didn’t wake up crying, sweating, aching, or apologizing. I’m sorry, Brick, he thought now as he looked at his friend.
“Hmmnn,” Brickert moaned.