by Tyler Hanson
The next hour passed uneventfully, and Nadi was grateful for the solace. The PAUS was no longer protecting them, so he deactivated the device, keeping it in standby just in case. A strange mix of energies filled the air, and he suspected that Ananya and Priya felt similarly. They should be happy to be alive and proud of their tenacity, but he also felt the poignant loss of their friends and . . . guilt. Others died while they still lived.
We will deal with this together, once we are safe.
After miles of travel, sunlight burned his eyes, announcing their emergence from the tunnels. Looking down, he could see the trickling water of the Varuna Canal at their feet. The group crawled up the grass-covered bank and reached level ground. Standing to his feet, Nadi observed their surroundings.
Dirt and patchy grass filled most of the horizon. Ahead of them, to the West, he could see the outline of the Waste Water Treatment Plant over some green trees a few kilometers away. To the right and behind them—the North and the East—they could make out small grey homes and businesses. A small mining town. To the South, all he could see was kilometers and kilometers of grass and trees, with Ennehole Lake near the horizon. Finally, to the Southeast, he saw the Mysore Airport runway stretch out like a welcoming arm.
“That’s where we’re going,” Nadi said, pointing toward the runway. “I have a friend there can help us get somewhere safe.” As the trio shuffled in the direction of the airport, he looked over at Ananya and nudged her. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“It was a group effort,” came her retort, and they pulled together into a walking embrace.
“Hey, don’t leave me out of this!” Priya merged into Ananya’s left side, joining the hug. The whole group stood still for a moment, their hot breath on each other’s necks. Nadi recognized the delirium of their state, brought upon them by the carnage left behind; once his brain processed their reality, he doubted he would be able to laugh again for a very long time.
They stepped across the grass onto the tarmac, angling themselves toward the airport entrance.
“Well, you managed to save your hoverboard,” Nadi said to Priya. “What’s next?”
Priya looked at the device in her hands. “Well now that you mention it, I’ve had a few ideas about introducing—“
A loud pop, like a cork bursting from a champagne bottle, interrupted her. Priya’s right eye exploded into a fountain of blood, and she tumbled to the runway, revealing a large crater in the back of her head. The hoverboard prototype struck the ground with enough force to crack the outer frame. It skidded a few meters away, only a dozen strides from the airport door.
Something whizzed past Nadi’s ear, making it itch. The glass windows of the airport ahead made sharp slapping sounds as holes appeared in them.
Ananya looked at him. “Nadi? What—“ Three holes burst from Ananya’s chest, spraying the tarmac red. She twisted like a rag doll onto the ground, her eyes glassy, forever staring at the clouds.
“NO!” Nadi screamed, his voice hoarse. Projectiles slipped past him, the sound of their travels buzzing through the air. He had been thrust into the center of a hornet’s nest.
Nadi sprinted toward the airport, leaving his last two friends behind. Something sparked off the metal shoulder of his PAUS vest, the pressure pinching his skin. The windows of the airport entrance had shattered, raining sharp fragments onto the floor inside. Beyond the window frames, the airport looked deserted, as if someone had ordered an evacuation.
He looked over his shoulder to see ten men rising from a patch of tall grass near the corner of the tarmac. They were dressed in the same black armor and equipment he’d seen back at the laboratory. Their rifles flashed small bursts of fire, but the sounds of their shots were strangely muffled. The pavement around him emitted sharp crackles, and hard pellets of rock flicked against his legs.
Nadi was only a few strides from the entrance when something moved above him, a shadow passing between him and the sun. He looked up in time to catch something launching itself from the roof of the airport. With little more than a soft whoosh, it flew over his head.
He glanced back at the ten men. The object landed in the middle of them with the mighty thud of a mortar shell, sending plumes of dirt and pavement into the air like smoke. The men flew away from the point of impact in every direction, each one landing prone a dozen meters away.
Grateful for the respite, he barged through the airport doors into an open, empty building. It was a wide, spacious area, punctuated only by patches of red seating chairs and black ropes shaped to form customer queues. The walls around him were made of small windows of glass, held together by a metal grid, and they stood several stories tall. Past the small, white attendants’ booths and red seating areas were some boxy, enclosed partitions that were likely offices for security or management.
Beyond those areas were ten more men in black, rifles raised.
They aimed their weapons at Nadi, and the muffled roar of suppressed machine-gun fire bounced around the walls. The noise grated against Nadi’s ears even as he rolled to his knees behind the nearest attendant’s booth. Bullets splattered into the opposing side of his booth as he closed his eyes, lonely and afraid, tears rolling down his cheeks. After a few seconds, his fists clenched.
No. No more. Everyone else died running. I won’t run, too.
He starting gesturing with his PAUS glove, the anger making the movements jittery. Bullets created pockmarks on the tiled ground around him, and the edges of the booth exploded into frayed chunks.
Ten-meter diameter . . .
Boots stomped against the airport floor as the unit advanced in Nadi’s direction.
2,000 PSI . . .
In front of Nadi, past the broken window frames, he saw the first ten men back on their feet, firing into the smoke at the mysterious object that had attacked them. For a fraction of a second, a flash of blue electricity arced from the cloud.
And . . . 1,000 kilometers per hour. Is that fast enough for you, Kalt?
He stood to his feet, keeping his head low to avoid the bullets. As it primed, the PAUS simultaneously hissed and hummed. He extended his gloved hand, fingers splayed apart.
All other coordinates track real-time hand gesture and motion. Let’s go.
Nadi swirled to face his attackers, clustered in their tight formation. As his covered palm pointed at them, a massive sphere of water formed in front of him. It stretched from wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, shimmering with untold violence from the pressure inside.
The tremendous construct blurred his view of the men, but he could see pinpoints of light form within the sphere as it swallowed their bullets. Before the attackers could react, he pinched his fingers together, pointing directly at them. The titanic ball of liquid zipped forward at barely subsonic speed. It struck the cluster of murderers, and they collapsed into the airport floor with a splash loud enough to rattle the remaining glass windows.
The weapon contained more power than Nadi could have imagined. Red clouds of blood, surrounding chunks of skin and bone, mixed with the water and sprayed against the walls. The sphere collapsed as Nadi dropped his hand and reactivated his ultrasound bubble. Dry air encircled him while excess water, chairs, and body parts flowed out of the airport through the broken windows.
The water leveled out after a moment, dropping to knee-height. Satisfied that none of his attackers survived the retaliation, he moved further into the airport. After reaching the end of the next hallway, a new sound reached his ears.
The noise of a helicopter.
Wind whipped around Nadi through the open windows, stirring the receding floodwaters. He ran as quickly as his legs could carry him to the closest office unit. Flinging the door open, he saw a beige-carpeted floor, a small metal desk, a filing cabinet, and another door near the back.
He closed the office door and looked around, but he couldn’t see anything of use. Much to his good fortune, there were no windows, so he had
a moment to move around without anyone seeing him. He ran to the back of the room and opened the second door. The revealed space was nothing more than a tiny, cramped coat closet. It was empty, save one tan, hanging raincoat. Nadi closed the door. He saw no benefit to cramming himself into a space so small.
“Find him!” A muffled voice yelled somewhere from within the airport.
Dozens of footsteps splashed through the water. They moved with considerable speed, based on the intensity of their footsteps. Nadi began to program new coordinates into his PAUS. As he worked, he thought he heard a quiet vibration behind him, near the closet.
It’s just the helicopter.
“Check the offices!” The same voice sounded outside.
Wet footsteps splashed louder, closer to where Nadi had holed up. He began to raise his glove, backing against the far wall, closer to the closet. The quiet vibration stopped. Nadi took a deep, shuddering breath, preparing for a final conflict with the men outside. New tears rolled down his cheeks as fear, sadness, and anger created a tight ball in his chest.
The entrance to the office rattled as the men tested the lock.
“It won’t open!” Someone yelled.
“Breach it!” Came a reply.
There was a creak and a rush of air, and Nadi felt the closet door open behind him.
“Three!”
He spun, glove still raised, and gasped.
“Two!”
Standing in the closet was some amorphous phantom, a living shadow wrapped in black shroud. Has Yama come for my soul?
“One!”
In the same moment the entrance to the office exploded, a black-gloved hand clutched Nadi’s shoulder and jerked him forward, into the closet. The door slammed shut, enveloping him in darkness.
Shadow’s Report
01.08: “Hunt”
La Encarnación, Colombia
November 13, 1999-A
Monsters.
Catalina took another sip of her Cuba Libre, watching the men yell and swear at their table over her shoulder. They wore cotton pants and colorful, short-sleeved collared shirts with the buttons left undone, exposing far too much chest hair. Their bodies had a sturdy, athletic quality while somehow remaining slightly pudgy. The round faces of all four men sported bushy mustaches and beady eyes. Catalina recognized the stench of Medellin Cartel members anywhere.
Why were they in such a small town, “en la media de la nada?” Their operations were far, far away, according to Catalina’s father. He always referred to them as weak, lazy competition. Hardly competition at all. Maybe these men were on some sort of vacation.
Whatever the case, they had invaded Catalina’s peaceful drink at the tiny, otherwise-unoccupied bar attached to the equally tiny inn. She sat on a stool at the counter, facing a middle-aged bartender wearing a frumpy burgundy dress and sporting a grey bun atop her head. Behind Catalina were three wooden, circular tables and a scattered handful of wooden chairs, the only amenities a bar so far in the wilderness needed. Not a criticism—she rather liked the place.
The four men in question were at the table closest to the entrance, making loud, lewd jokes and sharing stories of their sexual conquests. They even directed some of their comments at Catalina, but she paid no attention as she drank her Cuba Libre.
“It’s rare that we get visitors, you know,” the bartender said to Catalina in Spanish, punctuating her introduction with a smile. “I know the environment here is less than hospitable, but you’re welcome to talk to me if you want some company. Jesus knows I could use it.”
Catalina stared at the woman for five silent, awkward seconds. Before the talkative woman could open her mouth again, Catalina raised a hand to a black silk scarf tied around her neck, wrapped as tight as a vice. She pulled it down halfway, revealing a thick, knotted scar running across the entire front half of her neck, drawing a grotesque line beneath her Adam’s apple.
The woman blushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Catalina raised a hand to stop her before making a few gestures in LSC—Lengua de Señas Colombiana. [Do you speak sign language?] She always tried to learn the sign language specific to the areas she visited, just in case.
The bartender lifted her arms into an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t understand, I’m sorry. How’s this?”
She produced a pen and pad of paper from under the counter.
Catalina slid it to her side of the bar top, took another sip of her drink, and wrote in blocky Spanish letters. IT’S OK.
“What’s brought you this far into the wilderness? You aren’t planning on hiking, are you?”
Catalina reached into her pocket, wincing as the men behind her loudened. She wasn’t quick to anger, but she wasn’t brimming with patience, either. Right now, the men tested hers.
Besides, there’s no tolerance for monsters like these.
Catalina produced from her pocket an envelope and unfolded the letter within. She offered the paper to the bartender, who shook her head, tears forming in her eyes.
“I know what it says,” the woman said. “I helped write it, along with most of the other parents in this town. You’re the hunter? I think we all expected you to be a man.” She laughed and gestured to her own face. “A big, burly man with battle scars across his face. Serves us right for jumping to conclusions!” The bartender waved in Catalina’s direction. “But look at you! You’re petite and pretty. I’m jealous that you’re able to handle something so tough while being so slight.”
Catalina offered a tight smile, but the woman’s words only chilled her heart. She was small, thin and pretty; that much was accurate. Her olive skin, green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair were true to her mother’s Chilean heritage. However, her mother was nothing more than a “fantasma” now.
Her father had seen to that.
Catalina wrote, WHAT IS THIS MAN YOU MENTION IN THE LETTER? A “LEAN” MAN?
The bartender shifted again, her discomfort apparent. “I wouldn’t call him ‘lean.’ Maybe a better word would be sle—“
She was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of the men from the table. He lurched against Catalina’s back, using her shoulders to steady himself. His breath reeked of alcohol, and Catalina scrunched her nose. She took another sip of her drink.
“Whass a burtifal lady doin’ in a shithole ‘ike this?” he drawled in Spanish, and he spun her stool around to face him. The other three men at the table howled with abandon. “Come’n up to my room an’ I’ll give ya the best fuck you’ll ever get.”
He put his hands around her waist and pulled her off the stool and onto her feet. Her black boots clacked on the wooden tavern floor. She held eye contact with him for a moment, but he was too drunk—or brave, or stupid—to back down. He reached for her waist again, and she dodged his advance. Not one to quit so easily, he leaned in to kiss her. Huffing, she leaned toward him as well . . . and spit rum into his eyes.
In disgust, he cried and stepped back, startled. Catalina took advantage of his confusion by taking two deliberate stomps forward and punching him in the throat with a speed and force that she knew her slight stature belied. The man let out a gurgled, choking noise, reaching for his throat with both hands. He dropped to his knees, and Catalina reared back her arm. Before he could react, she delivered an open-handed slap across the face with a thunderous crack. He fell sideways to the floor, stunned.
Whether his temporary paralysis was from surprise or from pain, Catalina wasn’t sure. She hoped it was both.
Good. Fuck the Medellin. Fucking monsters.
The boisterousness of the table near the bar’s entrance subsided. All three men sat in silence, staring at Catarina. Their surprise broke when one stood and pulled out a long hunting knife.
“You fucking bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna feed you to my dogs.”
The bartender reached for something under the bar counter, but Catalina raised a hand to stop her. Guns won’t be
necessary.
Flanking Mr. Knife on the right, one of his friends grabbed his liquor bottle by the neck, wielding it like a club. His other buddy simply raised his fists to fight.
Oh, so you’re willing to get your hands dirty. Catalina pointed at Mr. Fist. I respect that. You’re first.
The three men must not have understood her gesture, because they all rushed at once.
Catalina’s chest thudded, her heartbeat quickening from a rush of adrenaline. She felt the pulling, painful sensation of her pupils dilating, accompanied by a slight pressure against the side of her temple. Time slowed to a crawl as the men approached.
Mr. Bottle reached her first by a split second, swinging the weapon of his namesake in a downward arc. As the bottle descended, Mr. Knife thrusted his weapon out and forward, toward her stomach. Catalina turned sideways, dodging the knife thrust, and kicked him in the back. Mr. Knife’s momentum carried him into the bar, and he tripped over the would-be sex offender sprawled on the ground.
In the process of turning, she grabbed Mr. Bottle’s wrist and stepped into his attack, bringing their bodies closer together while halting his strike. She lashed out with an upward palm strike beneath his elbow, fracturing his forearm with a crisp snap. As it bent at an awkward angle, he cried in agony, the bottle falling.
Catalina released Mr. Bottle’s arm and grabbed the bottle as it fell, all while continuing her body’s turn. She now faced Mr. Fist, his arm in mid-swing with a haymaker. She ducked beneath the swing, and he struck Mr. Bottle in the face, exactly as she’d positioned him when releasing his injured arm.
Even as Mr. Fist’s hand was connecting with Mr. Bottle, Catalina gripped the appropriated bottle with both hands and rammed the circular glass bottom into Mr. Fist’s solar plexus. He doubled over in pain and vomited onto the floor. Mr. Bottle was still rearing back from his friend’s punch, nose bloody and arm askew.
Catalina took advantage of Mr. Fist’s bent position to swing her leg into a stern kick, striking him directly in the face with her shin. Some part of his face popped, he went white, and he collapsed face-first into the ground, seemingly unconscious.
