Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3

by A W Wang

  I imagine myself floating over the dark scenery, enjoying the isolation. My eyes close as I wander through my dying memories, appreciating the few that are intact while avoiding the horrible one, which somehow won’t go away.

  A hallway image pops into my head. Although the faded and frayed wallpaper will be replaced with glossy wood paneling, I concentrate on the young woman outlined by the sunlight pouring through a bay window. While the glow highlighting the edges of her red hair looks perfect, the streaks of dust on her face make the picture just right. She’s important, and why I’m here.

  The seatbelt tugs across my waist as the helicopter descends to skim the treetops.

  Time to act like someone in charge.

  I settle back into my seat and, after reading “RED HAIR” one last time, roll down my sleeve. While I might not want to be close to the latest in my ever-changing set of teammates, I want them to come back alive.

  “Okay people, listen up.” When their heads turn, I jab my finger for emphasis. “Use your threads wisely. We hit the ground and get to cover. Then kill everyone.”

  The faces scattered across the dim cabin return my wide smile.

  Hopefully, they’ll last long enough not to be eager for combat.

  As we near the landing zone, a clearing fenced by dark shrouds of dense jungle, my stomach clenches at the all too real nature of what’s coming.

  The pilots turn off the lights, and a lonely blackness settles over us.

  While my heart begins its pre-battle pounding, I roll my shoulder and enjoy the phantom pain before pulling down my night-vision goggles.

  Bright shades of green erupt across the shadowy landscape.

  As a carpet of knee-high grass rushes at me, I unbuckle the seatbelt and ready my M16.

  A second later, the seat jolts from the hurried touchdown.

  No time to waste.

  I leap past the landing wheel, sinking into mushy ground, and scream to the faces in the doorway, “Move it. Get out of the clearing!”

  Without waiting, I sprint through the humid air and toward a bamboo thicket, trying to get my bearings and trusting the others to follow.

  The rustles of the long grass still after the helicopters fly away, leaving only the squishy sounds of our boots as we arrive at the tall stalks of wood.

  When the last of the team settles nearby, I grin and confidently nod. “Trust your threads, and you’ll get through this. We need to keep the initiative, so keep moving regardless of what happens.”

  I point to the other groups advancing into the jungle. “It’s going to be chaos, so try not shooting any of them. Or me.”

  For the first time, my lame, eve-of-battle joke garners a few snickers.

  Maybe I’m getting better at this.

  Although unsure of the enemy’s location, I assume they’re trying to do to us exactly what we’re trying to do to them. “Let’s move!” I say and lead my charges around the impenetrable wall of bamboo.

  Despite the horrors of my previous scenarios and the impossible death of the seven sigma, my optimism makes an appearance. Perhaps this time everything will be different. Perhaps this time will be a cakewalk.

  Metal clinks.

  I freeze.

  Bullets scythe through the thicket, shattering bamboo cylinders and raining splinters over my helmet.

  “Cover,” I holler, rolling to the ground.

  Wet thuds intermingle with the chatter of gunfire and whizzing of projectiles. A couple of my team fall, including the too young Jim, who asked about my cutting ritual.

  While jagged pieces of wood tumble over me, I empty my weapon across a tight return arc. Two others copy the action, and together we shred many of the remaining stalks, hoping to hit our unseen assailants.

  We can’t sit still.

  “Move to the side,” I shout, slapping a fresh magazine into my rifle.

  I twist and slither away, leading my surviving teammates through clumps of jungle grass.

  As if condensing from the humid air, sweat drips down my back as my hands claw at thick blades of vegetation and loose soil.

  In the distance, tracers stream between gaps in the foliage while staccato notes of gunfire erupt across the landscape.

  I crawl past the edge of the thicket and step into the underbrush. The goggles paint trickles of moonlight breaking through the leafy canopy as bright green spears. However, beyond their ambient glow, many dark patches lurk between the trees and scattered plants.

  After signaling the others to stay close, I edge forward, wending through undergrowth and ducking under overhangs of droopy fronds, which resemble many fingered hands waiting to snatch up the unwary. As I step over the roots of a moss-covered tree, figures run past a line of moonlight further up the trail.

  I drop to a knee and empty the M16, spewing brass cartridges around my boots.

  Dark shapes fall. The rest of the team opens fire, and tracers tear through the curtains of foliage.

  A thrill lifts my spirits when I refill my rifle and chamber a round.

  This time will be different.

  Except for the moans of the wounded, the surroundings quiet.

  With my weapon centered on the waving branches in the jungle ahead, I creep up the path while the others reload.

  Lead zips through tangles of flora and splatters against a nearby tree.

  I roll and come up firing, spraying bullets around the green flashes dotting a nest of shrubs.

  A searing pain yanks at my shoulder.

  I tumble backward and hit the ground with a grunt. As more bullets fly past, I drag myself behind a tree trunk, grimacing and keeping low.

  Leaves jerk and wood shatters as lead peppers the area. The stench of burnt greenery and cordite leaks into the heavy air.

  Making myself as small as possible, I yank a magazine from my ammo belt with shaky fingers. While the loss of blood is annoying, the arm remains serviceable.

  Behind me, a twisted form lies just off the trail. My surviving teammates huddle in the scant cover nearby. Only seven of us left.

  I nod to the nearest blackened face, unrecognizable under the night vision goggles, and swing myself onto the path, ignoring the throbbing pain in my shoulder. I crawl forward, avoiding the thick shrubs where disturbed leaves might betray my position, searching for any sign of the enemy in the dark patches ahead. Fingers of low-hanging vegetation trail over my helmet as I creep forward, waiting for a sudden burst of gunfire to end my life. My panic spikes from the gloomy thought, and I pause, sucking in a deep breath, and wipe sweat from my forehead.

  The bushes to my right rustle.

  I pull the trigger, groaning from steadying the gun with my injured shoulder.

  The misshapen leaves jerk from the flying storm of death. Something heavy thumps on the ground.

  An instant later, return fire splatters over the vicinity. There is a zip, and my stomach erupts in gore.

  Too shocked to scream, I drop my rifle and shove my hands over the mass of intestines pouring from the wound, struggling to staunch the bleeding.

  Dark figures leap from the brush, guns blazing.

  Woozy, I push with my weakening legs, willing my scraping boots to drive me into cover.

  A towering man stops, blocking a spear of moonlight, and aims the long barrel of his gun at my face.

  I will not die.

  But when I go to pull out my pistol, my free hand won’t respond.

  I flinch as confused shots come from behind, and the looming form explodes in a shower of gore.

  Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, another wave of lead rakes the area. A ricochet hits my boot and shatters my ankle.

  Fresh pain plows through my dizziness, and a groan pours from my mouth.

  Crisscrossing tracers, which my goggles display as streaking green lines, erupt through the branches and leaves.

  A torrent of blood from my abdomen leaks past my fingers as my body stops responding to my commands and stills.

  Indistinct figure
s swirl across my hazy vision.

  Two pairs of hands grab my shoulders and pull me from the fighting. As the rough undergrowth moves past, I tilt my head skyward.

  Moonlight glints off night vision goggles covering blackened faces.

  Although my rescuers are from my team, I have no idea who they are.

  I’d really like to thank them.

  After the pair leaves to rejoin the battle, I focus on the lesser, duller pain from my forearm, thinking of “RED HAIR.”

  As I try to recall the image, swirls of darkness gather at the edge of my sight, forming an indistinct circle.

  Dizzy from the loss of blood, a moment passes before I recognize the handiwork. The tightening smears are the long spindly fingers of Death.

  I panic as the world darkens into a sliver of green.

  Have to get to the girl with the red hair.

  Sunlight bursts in my imagination, and as the glare evaporates, the image of the redhead appears.

  She looks perfect.

  If this is my end, this will be my last thought.

  I smile as my breaths trickle and my heartbeat fades.

  The heavy jungle air lightens, and scents of honey and lemon flood into my nose.

  My eyes open to the glows of geometric shapes.

  Across the semicircle, the empty chairs stare with accusation. All my neophyte charges are gone, even the two who saved my life.

  I should be happier I’m still alive.

  Anger and despair cascade into my being. Although I’m not sure why I should care more about these lost teammates than any of the others who have died, my eyes moisten.

  I spend another few moments sucking air through my nostrils before I understand the true problem. The icy presence of Death has latched onto me. Even in this room, safe from the scenarios, his spindly fingers are loitering just outside my peripheral vision, waiting to yank the life from my body.

  My thoughts whirl as I bite my lip. Maybe it’s for the best. I should have died with everybody else.

  Many times.

  For a bleak moment, I shake my head, fighting the process of accepting my newly healthy form.

  Lan interrupts my self-loathing. “Once again, you have returned against all odds.”

  My voice rises with each word I speak. “Do you even care about anyone who died?”

  His little helm dips as though in deep thought.

  The pathetic gesture only fuels my despair. “All we do is kill and get killed for some mythical score that’s impossible to reach. Does all this death make you happy?”

  “You are upset, yet nothing has changed with the program. Perhaps you have finally accepted that you may not reach ten sigmas?”

  I jab my finger at his metal chest. “This isn’t right, and this isn’t fair.”

  “And what about the world needs to be fair? In life, people seldom get what they deserve or achieve what they desire. Why should the Ten Sigma Program be any different?”

  The rhetorical question combined with my hatred of the English accent strikes exactly the wrong chord. I jump to my feet with balled fists and glare at the miniature knight.

  Lan floats over, centering the dark slit of his visor on my face.

  “Do you require a physical outlet for your anger?”

  For some reason, I know I can’t hurt him. Even as my hands tremble, my rage crests. I blow out the breath I was holding.

  “What the hell is the point of this? And don’t say ‘What will you do?’”

  A long sigh echoes inside the armor before Lan replies, “The purpose of this program is not to find great teammates or great teams. In many cases, overwhelming force isn’t practical or available to win a battle. However, one person can always make a difference.

  “The purpose of this program is to find and nurture those individuals. People with greatness who can alter the outcome of a hopeless cause by themselves.

  “And the only way for these people to rise above their circumstances is through competition. Given the nature of the tasks waiting in the real world, this competition must be borne through life-and-death training. The end achievement requires nothing less.

  “While ‘What will you do?’ is a vague construct, one of its many interpretations is what you must make specific to your situation. Find your flaws and do something about them. Become the type of individual that this program seeks.”

  Unprepared for the logical advice, I slump onto my chair, suddenly exhausted. “Fine, now can you send me back to the barracks?”

  “Protocol must be followed,” Lan replies. Although spoken in his usual droll monotone, my imagination detects a hint of cheeriness behind the words.

  As the glows of the geometric shapes shine extra bright on his armor, Lan launches the debrief.

  Minutes later, I frown when he concludes by saying my score has increased a paltry 0.03 to 3.08.

  My thoughts crash into hopelessness as I materialize in my bed.

  Ignoring the light snores and rustles coming from my few remaining neighbors, I eye the dark ceiling, unsure of how to get past the great blue dome beyond. While the night passes, I search for all of my flaws and weaknesses but find no path to fix any of them.

  Finally, as the dawn breaks, I reach a single conclusion.

  Lan is right.

  I’m going to die in this program.

  Twenty-Three

  As the courtyard of the museum disappears, dread washes over me.

  Despite the rest of my team getting butchered in the last scenario and despite receiving five life-threatening wounds, I didn’t die.

  But it’s only a matter of time.

  I materialize into the prep room surrounded by nine fresh bodies ready to be inserted into the meat grinder of a new scenario.

  Rather than view those who soon will be dead, I dip my head, cupping my hands along the sides of my face to form blinders.

  While I wait for the pop to signal Lan’s arrival, I focus on my first teammates, the ones closest to me in this crazy universe. Cheri and her dreaminess, ever-cautious Jake, over-the-top Saya,…

  I sigh. They’re gone and all my stories with them. And with the loss of more memories, the dark anger has consumed more of my soul.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  “Greetings,” Lan says, breaking the self-pitying train of thought. “This looks like an exceptional team that will be exceptionally successful. In this scenario, you shall be sided with three other teams…”

  As the avatar drones through his usual new-team, pre-scenario speech, I narrow my hands to further reduce my vision. While my optimistic self might appreciate that each time could herald a new beginning with new friends, I just can’t go there.

  Especially with Death ready to pounce.

  “Are there any questions?” Lan says to conclude the briefing.

  “So, wait a second, this is a toss-in scenario instead of anything with planning?” a familiar voice asks.

  As Lan replies with an affirmative, I twist my head in disbelief.

  The golden sparkles arrive before I can utter a word.

  I materialize in a gray corridor constructed from cinder blocks. Sunlight pierces the thick glass window in the dead-end behind me, while opposite, the narrow space leads into a T-shaped intersection.

  Nobody is within sight. The term toss-in means exactly that—being randomly tossed into a scenario.

  Although alone, I’m armed to the teeth. A short-barreled rifle (SBR), pistol, and two combat knives—one long, one short—comprise my loadout. Both guns are chambered for 9mm rounds, and my vest and leg pockets bulge with enough ammunition to kill my forty enemies ten times over. Blue-colored body armor signals I’m on the blue team and protects my torso against anything but a close shot from an SBR.

  Kill everyone from the other side.

  Like every other scenario, the macabre directive arrives as an unbidden thought.

  I need to do one thing before the fun starts and barge into a utility closet.

&
nbsp; After the door closes, I frown. When I entered, I wasn’t prepared in case an enemy had been tossed into this room. Even though Death is coming, I shouldn’t make its job easy.

  Annoyed, I yank off my combat gloves and roll up my sleeve. With quick cuts of my thumbnail, I dig “RED HAIR” into my forearm.

  Gunfire reverberates through the wall.

  I hurriedly pull the sleeve down and yank the gloves back on.

  Since there was no pre-scenario preparation, the map is completely unknown, and since my team was just tossed-in, we have no rallying point. The basic strategy is wandering around killing anyone from the other side, while hoping not to get killed and picking up a few teammates along the way, including…

  The familiar voice rings through my head.

  It couldn’t have been her.

  More crackles of gunfire arrive, louder and nearer.

  I force away the nonessential thought and consider my weapon choices. Not sure if the spaces will become cramped enough to warrant knives, I narrow my focus to the SBR and the pistol. The SBR is better at distance but sacrifices maneuverability compared with the handgun. While—

  “Are you going to get into this fight?” internal me interrupts.

  “It’s pretty important to choose the right weapon. I don’t know what I’m getting into.”

  “Pick one. If things change, pick another.”

  I unsling the SBR.

  “Was that so hard?”

  Rolling my eyes, I edge into the hallway. As a vent near the ceiling pushes warm, dry air over me, I check the short space to the window and head for the T-intersection.

  A burst of gunfire rattles the floor beneath my boots, and I jerk. Although the concrete prevents any bullets from passing through, the sound’s location is disconcerting because my body armor protects none of my lower half.

  At the end of the corridor, I clear to my right then tread toward sounds of combat coming from the left.

  The action crescendos with an unsettling squeal.

  Not knowing what’s ahead, I round the corner, ready for anything.