by Nick Thacker
Something in Colson stirred. He felt his nostrils flare, subconsciously tightening his hand around the rope. He tensed, feeling biceps he rarely exercised and an abdomen hidden beneath too many layers of fat snap into action. He had never considered himself strong, but carrying around extra weight for years gave him an advantage he had never realized. He knew what adrenaline was supposed to feel like, though up to this point in his life he had never truly felt it himself.
Now, however, he was pissed, and his body seemed to be urging him toward a final, last-ditch effort to save himself. It was survival instinct, kicked into high gear, and it gave him the boost he needed.
He reached up, pulling his body upwards a few inches on the rope, just enough to —
There. He had the gun’s barrel clasped in his free hand, and he yanked it to the side just as it fired. The soldier didn’t realize at first what had happened, that his target had redirected his shot safely away from his head, but Colson wasn’t finished.
He held on to the gun as he let the rope slide through his other hand. It was enough to give him a good amount of burn from the friction, but he held tight to the lifeline as it ripped through his palm.
The motion had a startling effect for Colson — he hadn’t thought it through beforehand, and he certainly had surprised himself when it worked. The soldier, not reacting quickly enough, held on to the gun as well, his own grip challenged by Colson’s. The soldier was pulled to the floor, and both arms and his head slid over the edge of the elevator shaft, just beneath the descending car.
There was a sickening crunch sound, and then a squeal as the electronic motor riding above the elevator car was thrown into high gear as it fought against the new obstacle in its way. The combination forces of gravity and the elevator motor pushed the car’s floor hard against the soldier’s back, and Colson heard a heavy wheeze as the man lost the ability to breathe. He looked up into the soldier’s face, seeing it twisted into a mask of agony, his eyes bulging, lines of red dancing away from the pupils.
Colson felt nothing.
The sound of ribs cracking preempted one last lurching fall of a few inches, and the elevator came to a stop.
The soldier was pinned beneath it, still holding the gun with both hands. Colson had stopped descending as well, and he released the gun barrel and grabbed the rope with both hands once again, then finally realized what had happened and looked over at the two others hanging on either side of him.
“Well,” Joshua said, “that was dramatic.”
“That was gruesome,” Julie said, wincing and looking away. “But well done, Colson.”
Jonathan was still seething, the blood vessels in him constricted and pumping extra hard, but he beamed.
His mouth moved to form a response, but there was nothing in his mind he found suitable.
CHAPTER FIFTY-five
There were more chinese soldiers in the stairs than Reggie had bullets remaining, and they were still coming.
“This is what I was talking about,” he yelled to Ryan Kyle and Mrs. E., “we’re outnumbered.”
“And the elevator’s here. Probably five, six more in there.” As if punctuating the statement, he fired a barrage into the elevator car. The men inside, no longer semi-protected by the grated metal door, ducked and pressed themselves against the sides. One man lifted his rifle to fire back and was hit in the leg. As he went down, he fired a poorly aimed burst toward Kyle.
Kyle ducked, turning to Reggie. “It got stuck on something,” he said. “But they’re here.”
“Stuck on someone, I believe,” Reggie said. “I think our guys got down there alright, but that doesn’t really help us now.”
“I am out of ammunition,” Mrs. E said. There was no emotion in her voice, and she didn’t even turn to her teammates to judge their reaction. Reggie was happy to see she was a capable fighter, even if a relatively wild shot. Her cool under pressure was something that couldn’t be taught, and at his old training facility in Brazil he had struggled with testosterone-laden corporate types who couldn’t understand that control of oneself was always far more important than control of a gun.
“Here,” he said, handing her his last magazine. “It’s all I have.”
“But you are better,” she replied. “You take it.”
“We’ll be better off with three guns instead of two. Just focus forward, one target at a time.” He didn’t have time to give her a full lesson on battlefield strategy, so the single sentence would have to do. She would be fine if they made it through this, he knew. But looking at the Chinese soldiers now pouring out onto the floor of the large level, he wasn’t sure they would make it through.
“12 o’clock!” Ryan Kyle shouted. He pulled off three quick shots and two men fell.
“And 3 o’clock, and 11 o’clock,” Reggie said. “And 9:30, and 8:45…” he added under his breath.
This is isn’t going to work.
“We need something else. There are too many. These tables are Swiss cheese, and we’re just getting lucky they haven’t found home.”
“And they’re fighting each other,” Kyle said. “That’s taken their mind off of us.”
He was right, but Reggie hadn’t said it aloud, as if ignoring the fact that the only likely reason they were still alive was that both of their attackers had more pressing issues to deal with.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for reminding me. Again, we need another plan. You got anything?”
He didn’t need to look to see their heads shaking.
Reggie felt emotion and fear pushing up inside him, but his training and experience kicked in almost immediately. Within moments he was calm, collected, and smiling once again.
This is it.
“Okay, then. Let’s just buckle down and hope Julie and the others get the job done. All we got now is to keep the attention off them.”
“Shoot wisely,” Kyle added for Mrs. E’s benefit. “One shot at a time. That’s all it takes.”
Reggie popped his head up and over the side of the overturned table, trying to get a visual read on the situation. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Before the guns turned his direction and let out a spray of fire that sent him diving backwards and out of the way, he saw the remaining force of the Chinese army on the station gathered in the center of the level, moving toward them. Twelve, maybe fifteen men, all aiming at their location.
They were taking their time, he realized. They had their captives cornered and didn’t need to waste any ammunition dispatching them. On the other hand, they weren’t stupid: they wouldn’t leave the final minutes of battle to a few men. They wanted Reggie and the others gone, and they intended to make sure all of them were there to do it.
“What’s the situation?” Kyle asked, breathing heavily as he loaded his last magazine into his rifle.
Reggie almost laughed as he lay recovering on the floor, five or six feet away from his two teammates. “That last barrage didn’t tell you what you need to know?”
Kyle nodded, still all business. “What about the security force?”
Reggie snickered. “What security force?”
At that moment, he heard the sound of the station-wide address system click on, and the eery British female’s voice sing out. “System-wide purge enacted. Any remaining station personnel return to your safe zones and await further instruction.”
“Purge?” Reggie said. “Well, that can’t be good.”
“It means the security force must be gone,” Mrs. E said. The control system here must have waited for the remaining security guards to be eliminated, then it enacted the purge setting.”
“Again, that can’t be good. You think any of those ‘safe zones’ are down here anywhere?” he asked.
“It probably means the barracks. So no,” Kyle answered.
The Chinese had heard the message as well, but Reggie wondered if they understood it. He wasn’t about to peek over the tables again, so he crawled back to a spot on the other side of Kyle and waited for the
showdown to begin.
“How do you think they’ll do it?” Kyle asked, his voice a whisper. Reggie realized the noise of the battle in the room was gone, replaced by nothing but quiet voices of the Chinese as they all got into position.
A firing squad, Reggie knew. And we’re the ones about to be executed.
“Do what?”
“The ‘purge,’ or whatever. How do you think they’ll do it?”
“Beats me,” Reggie said. “If we’re lucky they’ll just blow it all up. Make it quick, you know?”
Kyle shrugged, and Reggie saw for the first time how young the man was. Blond, with streaks of brown on the sides of his head. His hair was cropped short, only an inch at the longest section, and a line of sweat and dirt stuck the front of his hair to his forehead. He had a dimple on each cheek, and an otherwise round, almost chubby, face. Decked out in gear and clothing, he almost seemed overweight, but Reggie knew the illusion. The kid was pure muscle, nothing but a fighting machine, but he had the smarts to back it up.
This kid doesn’t deserve this, Reggie thought. He’s made it this far.
He wondered what he could say to make it easier. He’d never been any good at last-minute speeches, or morale boosting, but he figured he had to try.
“Hey, buddy.”
Kyle gave him a weird look.
Yeah, sorry, that was weird.
“Uh, Kyle, I mean. Thanks. For doing this. Like helping.”
Kyle shrugged again.
“How long you been with Hendricks?”
“About a year,” Kyle replied. “It was a revolving door, really. Most of the private security stuff is. Lots of changes, never enough time to really develop a team.”
“I understand that. Military?”
“Yeah, six years. You?”
Reggie nodded. Six years, and at least another in the private sector. So this ‘kid’ wasn’t really a kid after all.
“Sorry it went down like this,” Reggie said.
“Eh. I’ve seen worse.”
Reggie nearly laughed. “Really?”
Finally, Kyle grinned, just a corner of his mouth turning upwards. “No. Never. This is pretty shitty.”
Reggie couldn’t control himself any longer, and he chuckled, far too loudly. Whatever, he thought. We’re dead anyway.
Mrs. E shot them both a glance, and Reggie was about to make a snarky comment when the air above them erupted in gunfire and explosions.
CHAPTER FIFTY-six
Crack! The sound of fist hitting flesh was far louder than Ben had imagined it would be. Of course, he had only heard the noise a few times in his life, and never from the inside of his own head.
The man standing in front of him now was blurry, his eyes unwilling or unable to focus on his attacker. Ben involuntarily brought his arms up to block the incoming blow, but his hands and arms were tied behind his back. There was a chair in between — he could feel the hard metal of the upright back.
So I’m tied to a chair, looking at a blurry —
Crack! Another blow, this time from the opposite side.
—Attacker, one who obviously has a decent left and right hook.
There was no humor in the thought. Ben felt no emotion at all, really. His body was still numb from the frigid outside air, but he knew even without the full capacity of his eyes that they were inside. The numbness helped immensely with the pain of the punches, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the tingling warmth of the research station would strip that away.
He braced himself for another attack, but none came. He waited, still trying to see his attacker.
“What is your name?”
The voice was strange — light, and somewhat meek. It was accented, too. French? Ben had lived his life near the Canadian border, so he knew intuitively the lilts and characteristics of the language. But it wasn’t just the accent that threw him. It was the timidity, the unassured sense he was getting from the man speaking.
The man coughed, then sniffed a few times, then spoke again.
“What, I ask again, is your name?”
Ben frowned, blinking a few times to clear his head. Am I dreaming? He wondered if he might still be outside, knocked unconscious and dreaming about warmth and light and strange French voices.
No, of course not. There wouldn’t be someone punching me in my dream.
He was punched again, another man’s voice breaking through his thoughts. “He asked your name, sir.”
This man’s voice was gruff, a seasoned soldier barking an order to Ben.
“B — Harvey Bennett,” he said. His lips were shaking, both from still being somewhat frozen and from the numerous bleeding cracks from the assault. “But you can call me Ben,” he added.
There was a pause for a few seconds longer than Ben would have expected, and he understood why. He knows me.
“Harvey Bennett,” the French man said, articulating every syllable in Ben’s name carefully and purposefully. “The Harvey Bennett. Very well, Ben. My name is Francis Valére, and I own this station. I just arrived in Antarctica to find my property nearly destroyed.” He paused, coughing again, then continued. “I would like to know why you and whomever else you are working with decided to attack this base.”
Ben’s vision was improving, and he could now see where he was. Level 10’s rows of shelves, each filled with drawers of humans, stretched outward on either side of him. The bottom of the base, he thought. Nowhere for me to run. They had started their journey here, and now he was right back where he had begun. He also saw the man’s face, round and slightly small compared to the two other men standing on each side of him. This man was shorter than the other men, too, and he wasn’t wearing the uniform of the security force or the Chinese soldiers.
This man was in charge, as he had said. Ben did not doubt that, but he wondered why he had made the trip all the way here to the bottom of the earth, especially with three parties waging war with each other inside the station.
“You’re Draconis Industries,” Ben growled.
The man seemed confused for a moment, then attempted a shy smile. It came out more as a strained grin, like a terminal patient reminiscing on better times. “No,” he said. “I am just a man. Mortal, imperfect, and troubled as any other man. But my company is called Draconis Industries, among other things. But it too is troubled. Fractured and weak.”
Keep him talking, Ben thought. It wasn’t so much for the long-term strategic plan — Ben had none — but because he assumed if the leader of the station was talking to him, it might help prevent the other two men from punching Ben in the face.
“Draconis was my brainchild, and it was very successful. We changed the world, Ben, in ways you and your friends can never understand. We did good things, too, although you very likely will not ever see any of it.” Another pause, and this time the man stepped closer to Ben. One of his guards stepped with him, holding his boss’s elbow as the older man walked. “You have caused me a lot of grief.”
“What I’ve caused you is nothing,” Ben said, “compared to what you’ve done.”
“Yellowstone?” the man asked. “Is that what you are referring to? Yellowstone was a test, Ben. It was a charade, one that I would have accomplished differently had I not had the incompetent team I had working for me. We could have cured the world, Ben.”
“You sound like every other supervillain,” Ben said. “But you’re not as cool. Just a weak old man, one who’s going to —“
Crack. Another blow to his face, this time landing dangerously near his temple. He saw stars, and felt his blood pumping through his body. He opened and closed his jaw, trying to work out the pain from his face.
“Is that all you think this is, Mr. Bennett?” the man’s voice had taken on an air of seriousness, and Ben thought he could see Valére standing straighter. “When we were smaller, Ben, we were phenomenal. The things we could do. Countries and militaries had investment in us, and we were unstoppable. We were lean and effective. We grew and we
became slow and lethargic, like any large corporation. It was my fault as much as anyone’s, and that was why we began to fragment.
“I have read the reports, Ben. And I have heard the stories — you think you did the world a favor? You think you even affected it? You flatter yourself; this little witch hunt you are on. And now. Down here, where no one is watching? You came here for what, to find me? Tell me, Ben, what did you really think you would find here?”
Ben was feeling the pangs of an immense headache, and his mind was mush. He tried to put words together. He opened his mouth, pressure from his aching head closed it again, and he felt his eyes rolling around in his head.
Come on, Ben. Think.
He was useless in the chair, bound in place and dumbfounded. He might as well have been gagged.
The other soldier stepped close to Ben again and he could see his arm winding up for another blow.
“No, I… uh…” Ben just needed to get words out; he needed to make the man stop attacking him. “Umumuh.”
Valére looked down at Ben like he was a dying dog, slobbering and useless on the ground.
“I know…” Ben said.
“What is that?”
“I know how… how this goes.”
Valére waited, and his men left Ben alone for the moment. Okay, just talk. This is good. Make words, and hope they make sense.
“This ends… like it always does. You… you tell me your grand plan, and why you’re doing it, and everything.”
“I do?” Valére asked. He coughed, and lifted a hand to his mouth. Was there blood? Ben couldn’t tell.
“Yes,” Ben said, the vocal practice helping him find his thoughts. “Yes, you do. It’s what supervillains always do. There’s a moment at the end when the hero is tied up, and — the hero is me, by the way — and then the villain tells him everything and all of his plan and —
Crack! The two men attacked in unison, both punching at opposite sides of his head. He screamed in pain, wondering why his head wouldn’t just pop and end it, and the men attacked again. He expected a blow to his head again, but this time one of the soldiers crushed his gut and knocked the air out of him, and the other kicked him in the shin.