Sunlight 24

by Merritt Graves

  “We don’t have time for this!” yelled Ethan, trying to twist free. “We’ve got to go with them!”

  He thrashed again and finally managed to break away.

  I hesitated for a few seconds before following him. The front door was already open and we broke into the night, ducking as we passed two more just-arrived squad cars that were already getting hammered by gunfire. Only one cop was left alive, firing from underneath his chassis at an intruder who’d taken cover in one of the shot-up cruisers of the first responders.

  I caught Jaden’s profile as he flashed by under a streetlight. He’d made a wide circle and succeeded in getting behind the two new police cars, but had stopped short and was trying to catch his lighter with something on the ground. It became clear why a second later when fire sprang up and enshrouded the officer in a ribbon of crisscrossing flame.

  “Dear Christ,” mumbled Ethan next to me.

  Tires squealed from getaway vans peeling around from a side street while gunshot tracers lit up like packs of rebellious stars, dizzying as they punctured its surface. My molars ground. grinded. Nearing lights from half a dozen more police cars jammed themselves between my thoughts, fracturing time as I swooned and then staggered back to life.

  “They’re fucked, Ethan! They’re fucked!” I cried, seeing yet another line of police lights appear in the distance. “There’s no way they’re going to get the hostages out in time!”

  Ethan’s eyes burned with denial.

  “I’m leaving—you do what you want!”

  They weren’t going to catch me. Not now. I started running down the sidewalk but then swerved and cut around behind the house instead, thinking that maybe I might be able to make it to Jesup Park a couple miles away. More police would be coming from the streets. They would come, and come, and come.

  As I escaped the glare of the streetlights, shadows blurred with the bushes to form a single, opaque cloud that engulfed me as I burst through a wooden gate and into the sprawling yard next door to the Doyles. For a few moments I was in a freefall, but then lights sliced in from neighboring windows, illuminating the fonts and classical ornamentals of a transformed reality. A girl in a white dress stared down from an overhanging window before a tree branch eclipsed her a few seconds later.

  Near the house, there was a dim glow from a basement aperture, but as I ran toward the back of the garden it got darker and darker, like a plank disappearing into the blackness, and then I was off the edge, tumbling down a slope. Pain splintered through my shoulder, but I was so flushed with adrenaline that in seconds I was up again, swerving around tree trunks.

  Dogs whined nearby. Flashlights beamed through an approaching hedge and I lunged to avoid them, skittering into a slide.

  And then I was crawling and retracing my steps, grabbing huge fists full of grass and dragging myself backward. They were getting closer, probably police coming to surround the house from the back—and would see me for sure if I got up and ran now.

  A dog snarled again as Ethan stumbled out of a grove of trees and froze within a mesh of flashlight beams.

  “Over there!” a voice shouted.

  I leapt up and tried to pull Ethan with me, stumbling, flinching at the sight of muzzle flashes and tree bark exploding around us. Resignation kicked in my chest, subsuming the fear with the knowledge that they were trying to kill me. It didn’t matter what happened; they were just going to assume I was one of the kidnappers. Assume I was in on it.

  Passing back through the gate we’d entered, I saw that more police cars had turned up on both sides of the street and had caught the kidnappers in a crossfire. The sounds of the gunshots and metal thumping on concrete and siding was so loud that nothing else registered. Strands of fire cordoned the street, spat from the burning vehicles.

  One of the vans was trying to pull forward up on a curve and get closer to Jaden and the wrapped hostages, but its tires had been shot out and the wheel rims were making a bestial howling noise against the asphalt, like teeth in a blender. Its horn wailed, and at first I imagined that the driver was trying to signal something, but when it kept going—jamming itself into a frequency between the gunfire and spinning rims—I knew he’d been hit and had slumped over against the wheel.

  I almost tumbled over a police officer sprawled in the grass as I slowed, trying to make sense of the scene. A few meters away, in the front yard of the Doyles’, a group of the hostages was being shuttled back toward the house by my brother, who was standing in their midst, arranging them as a moving shield. It didn’t seem like the police yet understood their significance, however, with hostages continuing to drop, merging into the shadows.

  I turned back to see fence posts splintering and Ethan running through the garden gate after me. His movements were stilted and labored, his chest heaving up and down as he gasped for breath, dragging his left leg behind him. He’d clearly been shot. Maybe even a couple of times. And as a tracer hissed an inch from my cheek, I knew they were trying to shoot me, too.

  For the first time I felt a part of the chaos and instinctively picked up the officer’s gun and pointed it behind Ethan, trying to cover him.

  Before I realized what was happening, I pulled the trigger, recalling the motion easily from all the times I’d done it in Wolftac R8. A figure jerked in the darkness, a piece of him flying off as he staggered backward into the gate, taking another officer with him in a ghastly embrace. He fumbled with the fencepost and then the other officer’s lapel, trying desperately to hold on and keep from falling.

  I had no feeling in my hands. Everything seemed numb. I blinked and fired again. Wood behind the officers fragmented and I thought I was missing them, but after a few moments they wobbled and fell, first to their knees and then all the way to the ground.

  This wasn’t something I’d ever given the slightest thought to before. I got sick to my stomach squishing spiders on my mom’s orders, so whatever that had just happened couldn’t have been me. It was just an impulse cascading into another impulse, a microscopic segment of a chain reaction, blown up and fast forwarded. I was being shot at so I was loading another magazine from the dead cop’s belt and firing at the fence again. It was set apart from everything else. An island. And yet I knew the guilt would be there as soon as this was all over. My body just needed to keep it out for the next few minutes, so it could survive. So it could go on pumping blood to my brain.

  The next officer through the gate stopped and began to turn, but I hit him before he could get his whole body back through and kept the gun trained on him as he fell, firing repeatedly to make sure he was down. Another one was using the fence as cover, sticking out through the gate to pop off shots, but bullets carved through the wood and struck him, too, and he toppled over the last one. I kept the gun leveled at the gap. Either that was all of them or the rest had opted to come around the other side.

  I looked at Ethan doubled over on the ground.

  “How bad is it?” I gasped, my heart racing—unable to catch sight of the wound.

  Even more police were streaming in from both directions, filling the street with a river of light.

  “Bad.”

  “Just hold on, okay?” We had to get back into the house—back to that Medpad.

  I kept the gun steady and swung my head around. Everything was lit up now from all the police cars. The grass swayed, sea-like, and the bodies littering it looked like rafts, dislodged from the fray and left to drift. Blood, almost glowing in the light, was dripping across one of the windshields from the splayed form of a kidnapper. He was still alive, though, and looking up despondently at the roof where the one they called Slim, was still raining down bullets, keeping the whole blue and red sea from falling upon us. Every few moments he sent out another burst of gunfire.

  That sound must’ve kept him from hearing window rattle open or the SWAT team’s footsteps on the ledge behind him an instant later. Only when Slim paused to reload did it seem like he noticed something, but by then they were already shoot
ing and he was tumbling—catching on the chimney for a few moments—then cartwheeling and plunging through the branches of a nearby tree.

  Even though this left Jaden without cover, he looked calm. The hostages were still pressed tightly around him and it must’ve finally dawned on the officers what the wrappings were, because they’d slackened their barrage of bullets, first to a trickle and then finally to nothing at all.

  “Ethan, get up! You gotta get up!” My voice shook. This would be our only chance. The getaway vans had ignited in pyres on the curb.

  Sweat blurred my vision, distorting his face into an awful tangle of features. In front of us, helicopter search beams dove through the foliage while police row lights, spot lights, and flashlights tunneled into the night from all directions, splitting the avenues of escape into finer and finer slivers.

  Ethan was calling out things next to me, but I could barely hear him, his voice slipping under the gunfire like he was drowning. I emptied the last of my magazine and clambered around the officer’s body for another one, finally finding it strapped to an ankle. I fired a few more shots, mashed the gun inside my belt, and began dragging Ethan toward the house.

  We moved across the yard through the hostage circle. Ethan’s limbs slackened and there was this feeling of downward pull as if he and I were collapsing into the lights, but I was hauled to my feet by Jaden as he passed us on his way to the door a few moments later. Once we made it through ourselves, one of the robbers shut it, blotting out the helicopters and the yelling and the strained robotic voices from the megaphones like a hand over a scream.

  “Herd them in the corner!” I heard Jaden shout to his handful of remaining men. As I dragged Ethan to the staircase, I looked back, my eyes meeting those of my brother. And for a second, I was through them, behind the mask and feeling so much rage and hate and sadness that I had to brace myself against the bannister. I could tell he wanted to shoot me, but I sensed that there was something deep down, somewhere hidden and locked away, preventing it—the same thing that had compelled him to help me inside.

  Ethan moaned and I broke the stare. I had to get him up to the Medpad before he bled out. “Stay awake, Ethan. You have to stay awake!”

  He mumbled back something inaudible, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  All his mass was on me as I climbed and heaved. I mostly kept pressure on his wound, but he was heavy enough that every stair we took would jostle him and my hand would slip a little, dripping blood onto the carpet. “We’re almost there, Eth, just hold on, buddy . . . you gotta hold on,” I repeated as we made it to the top. “You’ve just got to stay awake.”

  The megaphone sounded louder as we traveled down the corridor and I knew it must be coming from an open window, eyeing the blackness behind each doorway we passed. Ethan slipped again and I picked him up, wincing at the amount of blood soaking his shirt. The source was clear, but the surface seemed impossible to get flush with, like trying to stop water leaking from a cloud.

  Near the end of the hall we found the Medroom. Once inside, I flung folders and boxes off the pad table and hauled Ethan up on it. “Lights, lights,” I called out in the darkness, but they didn’t come on. Had the power been cut? Even if it had, the Doyles should’ve had a battery backup: they were rich enough, plus their roof was lined with solar panels. My hands fumbled for the manual light switch and they beamed down halogen blue.

  “Welcome to Tethys Health Systems’ integrated medical terminal,” said the disembodied AI calmly as soon as I had Ethan on the pad. “I’m Amy. If the situation is an emergency, please select the red button—”

  I selected it.

  “Please describe the nature of your emer—”

  My hand jammed against the trauma button before she could finish.

  “Please describe the nature of the trauma either verbally or manually—”

  I hit gunshot wound and then abdomen.

  “Trauma noted. Please place the patient on the center of the surgical table and—”

  “He’s already on it!” I yelled, grabbing Ethan and scooting him over a few inches one way and then back a couple the other.

  “Please position the diagnostic ring over the afflicted region,” said the voice.

  “I already told you what’s wrong with him!” I screamed. “Just get me a fucking surgeon!”

  “A diagnostic is required in order to optimize your medical pairing.”

  “Fuck! You fucking cunt!” I had to take my hands off of Ethan’s stomach in order to guide the ring over him, and blood started seeping out the dime-sized hole above his belly button.

  “Once the ring has been properly positioned, please select engage from the menu below or give verbal authorization.”

  “Yes, it’s done. Engage! Engage!”

  A sharp blue light strobed down into Ethan, casting an epileptic sheen over the operating table and turning his wound from red to a dark, eggplant purple. The bed began humming several octaves lower than the madness outside, making the distant voice on the megaphone sound like it was from a strange, experimental concert. The device scanned in a half circle and when it reached the bottom it started back up the other way.

  “I already said he’s shot in the stomach,” I pleaded, knowing it was useless. “I just need a doctor!”

  “I will be able to make the correct medical pairing once the diagnostic has been completed.”

  I didn’t know whether to keep my hands on Ethan’s wound or to lift them up for the nearing blue light. The last thing I wanted was to risk having the scan start over, but I couldn’t have him lose any more blood. He already looked like a ghost. Lost. Like an astronaut whose cord had snapped on a spacewalk.

  “Diagnostic complete. After verbal or manual confirmation is given, I will connect you with a medical professional standing by to assist.”

  “Confirmed!”

  “Stand by while the connection is processed. Because of the information you’ve provided, your professional will already be prepped for surgery when he or she arrives remotely. In order to ensure immediate commencement, please remove the patient’s shirt and fasten the laryngeal mask hooked on the left side of the panel around the patient’s nose and mouth. The proper anesthesia will be administered by your medical team once the uplink has been established.”

  I fumbled for a knife on the tray and sliced Ethan’s shirt from collar to waist, lifting it up slightly to make sure I didn’t cut him. Then I grabbed the mask—dragging the stand it was hooked to a few feet—before getting it unclasped and pressing it against his face.

  “Confirmed,” I said.

  “Next, take the surgical tube located directly behind the diagnostic panel and position it over the trauma region. Confirm once completed.”

  “It’s confirmed,” I said, after adjusting it. “Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed!”

  “Life-threatening trauma detected. Immediate surgery required. Stand by. Your specialist will arrive momentarily at the uplink.”

  I brought my right hand up behind my head, glancing at the silhouettes of the police lights swaying on the curtain and then down at my other hand covering the hole in Ethan’s stomach. Every thought, every insight he’d had, or would have, was hanging over a chasm. He was flawed—a real piece of shit sometimes, but original and unique—and right now there was only a strand keeping that from being lost into nothingness.

  “Life-threatening trauma detected. Immediate surgery required. Stand by. Your specialist will arrive momentarily at the uplink.”

  “Hang in there, Ethan.” I swiped at the sweat streaming down my face and then sneered at the machine, “Why don’t you hurry the fuck up?”

  “I don’t think . . . I don’t think they’re going to . . . going to come,” Ethan mumbled, moving his head from side to side.”

  “What? Who’s not coming?”

  “They’re . . . not . . . coming . . . they’ve cut the cable.”

  “Life-threatening trauma detected. Immediate surgery required. Stand
by. Your specialist will arrive momentarily at the uplink.”

  “Got to switch to wireless . . . use the signal from . . . from your bug,” gasped Ethan.

  “That’s down, too, man.”

  “I need a blanket. It’s so cold . . .”

  I tried to scan the browser in my film again for troubleshooting forums, but I couldn’t get a signal. It could be the police jamming the Wi-Fi and 7G now or it could still be Jaden. And that whole show of collecting devices could’ve just been a ploy to draw out anyone inclined to fight back.

  “Life threatening trauma detected. Immediate surgery required. Stand by. Your specialist will . . .”

  The voice dropped off into a void. I squeezed the surgical tray.

  “I’m sorry, we’re unable to establish a connection with an operating specialist due to latency. Please contact your internet service provider to resolve—”

  “You fucking bitch!”

  “They’ve cut the cable . . . jamming the wireless,” Ethan whispered, clutching at his stomach. “You’re going to have to do it.”

  “I can’t. I . . . I don’t know what to do, Ethan!”

  “She knows.”

  I was already woozy from the sight of Ethan’s blood oozing out, but now I began to feel lightheaded. Waves of nausea washed over me and I steadied myself on the steel equipment rack, knowing I was close to fainting. I couldn’t do this. God, I couldn’t do this.

  “I, I . . . I’m . . . not sure . . . I think she can . . . she can walk you . . . walk you,” Ethan’s voice trailed off and his eyes fluttered shut.

  “Keep talking, Ethan. Just keep talking! Everything’s going to be alright,” I urged him, but it felt like a terrible lie. There was nobody to help except me, and the prospect of having to cut him open hovered, too menacing and awful to acknowledge. I felt cold all over, scared that he was going to die but just as much that I wasn’t going to be strong enough to cut him open.

  “I doubt it,” Ethan said, his eyes open again and our fear intertwining. “But sometimes . . . you need something bad to happen to you . . . to feel what you should’ve felt all along. That this world is so fucked up . . . so fucked up.”