by A W Wang
Footsteps crunch from nearby, and shots zip past my cover.
Surprised by how close my enemies are, I push further into the protecting boulders.
Scrapes and cascades of pebbles come from just beyond my vision. They aren’t even bothering with caution.
I turn and face the rock, finding a foothold.
“What are you doing?” internal me asks.
“The lava’s blocking any retreat. My last stand is going to be here. So I charge over the top and take them by surprise.”
“Against two sevens?” the voice of cautious Jake asks incredulously.
Saya adds, “Then let’s go out with a big whoop.”
“Does anyone have anything useful?” I scream to my newfound partners.
The conversation settles into a dead silence.
I shake my head in disgust and grip the knife tighter.
I’m finally on the right path to reach ten sigmas, but I’m going to die anyway.
Sixty-One
As I ready to end my life in a desperate gambit, a clack comes from nearby. Surprised, I twist my head in time to see another shot ricochet from upslope.
From behind a rise near the wall, Jill points at my enemies.
I hop off the rocks, understanding her meaning and thankful for the help. After she signals to Ty, I hold up three fingers. Then two. Then one.
A shooting gallery erupts as my companions risk their lives to occupy the enemy.
The cracks increase as I build up as much speed as possible in the short distance available. On my fourth step, I leap and pull up my knees. A wall of heat rushes past as I fly over the molten channel and extend my feet.
My boots just clear the glowing red, and to make sure I don’t burn, I roll forward and tumble down the slope in a cascade of flat pebbles. After a few bruises, I right myself and slide into a dimple on the next terrace.
Another second passes before the brief firefight quiets, and everyone reloads and seeks a better position.
I take advantage of the lull and quicken my pace downslope.
“Hey, 4.9 guy. Is that you making all that racket?” the female voice hollers.
Against my will, I glance upward.
She’s alone and ready to grind me into ashes by herself.
And she’s going to succeed.
The sniping contest renews with Ty and Jill battling the four other opponents.
The four against two can’t last, and I frantically search for a place to hide, so I can figure out how to deal with my enemy.
Pellets disintegrate a rock below my boot, and I pop up and twist past a vent spewing black smoke.
Another hail of metal arrives through the haze but hits nothing.
Hidden for the time being, I stay low and scoot forty more meters down, jumping over branches of lava, and stop behind a wide jutting of volcanic rock.
“There isn’t a lot of time. You might want to start this transformation,” internal me says.
“First things first.”
I cut the sleeve from my outfit and slash “RED MANE” into my forearm. With the pain as my fuel, I imagine the voices of people in my past.
“It’s getting awfully crowded in here,” says internal me.
To tidy up the mess, I picture them as caricatures lined over my shoulder like figurines in a bookcase, ready to help but out of sight. When things settle down, I focus on my immediate nemesis.
The landscape only offers rocks covered by ash belched from the crater. My only implements are a hypervelocity rifle with no pellets, a knife, and the clothes on my back.
I groan at the dreary possibilities.
“Think outside the box!” a sexy voice says. A moment passes before I realize the words are from Jet.
As I roll my shoulder from phantom pain, I set my thoughts loose.
“You’re the weapon,” adds internal me.
This I know, but I’m missing something obvious.
“Darling, it’s so obvious you will smack yourself when you figure it out,” Cheri adds.
While black flecks fall over the vicinity, I clutch the cutoff sleeve, rubbing at the rope of trim. Something from long ago when I was introduced to the threads. A crude, ancient weapon.
“Where are you hiding, 4.9 guy?” calls the woman hunting me, her steps crunching nearer.
As I hunker lower, my focus centers on the thick trim running on the outside of my leg.
With the knife, I separate the long rope of orange from the unitard and, a moment later, do the same with the other side. The idea strengthens as I fold the sleeve and poke two holes into each side of the tough material. Remembering my lessons from the threads, I push the orange lengths through the holes, creating a shepherd sling.
The contraption David used to kill Goliath.
“Except this Goliath has a hypervelocity rifle and would kick the real Goliath’s ass in hand-to-hand combat. And there are five of them,” says a voice sounding like cautious Jake.
“Hey, Mr. No-Ammunition,” the seven sigma taunts, stepping closer.
With only moments to live and no better options, I sheathe the knife and force away all doubts. This nutty idea has to work. After hurriedly knotting the ends of one of the ropes and looping the other around my index finger, I grab a few smooth stones. Then I relax with steady breaths and wait for the right moment.
As a blistering, ash-laden wind rushes past, I focus through the hissing vents and to the shots and impacts raining over the slope, letting an image of the fighting form in my head.
Soon.
“Why don’t you come out and just make your death easy?” the seven calls.
“Go screw yourself,” I yell.
A dark laugh arrives. “Is that all you’ve got? Let me clue you in on something, funny guy. We started out with five people, and we still have five. Do you think your merry band of fours has a chance? We’re the greatest team this program has ever assembled, and we’re all making it out of here. Got that?”
I holler back, “It’s going to be so much fun when I kill every single one of you.”
“Maybe I’ll just shoot off your hands and feet and leave you to die under a pile of ash. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Amazing, I thought I had a bad sense of humor, but yours is worse.”
Her reply comes as furious shots smacking the nearby ground.
My thoughts turn to Jet, who made herself into whatever she needed to be, and words flood into my head.
I am my essence, and I will make the best of everyone a part of me. Only then can I be a ten sigma.
“What will you do?” I whisper to myself.
I’ll be the best of everyone.
A scream cuts through the battle, and a moment later, the rocket fires with a high-pitched shriek that ends in a welcome explosion.
While burning debris falls, I pop an egg-shaped stone into the pouch and charge from cover, whirling the sling. For all the erasing of real-world memories, the training under the harsh sunlight for this weapon comes through with crystal clarity.
My opponent is precisely where I expect her, twenty meters away, cast in the red sheen of a river of lava. The tapered barrel of her rifle swings toward me, hesitating for a fraction of a second as her wide eyes process the ancient implement appearing on a modern battlefield.
The delay is just enough. I fling the stone and twist as a metal pellet grazes my ribs. I hit the slope just before the egg-shaped rock crushes the bridge of her nose. Eyes rolling skyward, she flops into the molten current. Her body jerks once and bursts into flame.
I follow Jet’s advice of never losing the initiative and rush up the incline. I head for the crater left by the rocket where the smoking, mangled remains of the 7.01 lie face down. My hurried steps gobble up the distance to my remaining enemies.
When the purple-corded form of the other man who was hunting me wobbles to his feet, I load another stone and flick the sling. At the last instant, he twists away, only to have a stream of pellets from Jill smash through h
is skull.
Three down and two to go.
Fifty meters upslope and behind the ridge of the next terrace, the 7.12 and brawny 7.51 turn toward me.
I jump over a bubbling stream of lava and dive into a dry channel as shots pepper the area.
Jill leaps from cover and rushes down the mountain, her rifle spitting out suppressing fire.
From the other side of the etched gate, Ty does the same, wobbling from the gash in his leg while holding a fresh stomach wound.
Caught between two sides, the sevens duck into cover.
Surprised the battle has unfolded as planned, I select the best advice from the competing voices and narrow the distance, marching my way higher. Protected by the lip of the channel, I fling arcing stones at the huddling pair, trying to create another opportunity.
The 7.12 curses when a jagged rock clips him in the shin. He scrambles in my direction, staying behind a bulge in the incline, and sprays pellets at me.
Ducking from ricochets and splintering rock, I sling more stones in his direction.
The stream of metal stops when his magazine empties, and I switch from being cautious like Jake and spring into a Jet-like charge, hopping from the channel and plowing up the slope.
Ty and Jill respond by rushing further down and pouring more fire on the 7.51 while I whip a stone at the 7.12.
In a single, swift motion, he dodges while pulling out a fresh magazine and slapping the thin cartridge into the weapon.
I flick the remaining stones from my hand when his rifle rises, ruining his aim before unslinging my rifle. Two steps later, I jump to the right to avoid some hurried shots. As he adjusts to my new direction, I bound back over a puddle of lava, sweeping the stock of my rifle through the thick liquid.
Just before he centers on me for a kill shot, I fling the melting weapon at him, sending scalding red droplets everywhere, and dive to the side.
A scream hits my ears as metal splits the air behind me.
I grab another handful of smooth rocks and rise to a knee, snapping one into the pouch and whipping the sling over my head.
As the man dances, wiping at the wisps of smoke rising from his burned unitard and seared skin, I launch the projectile.
Even horribly wounded, he sidesteps, but before he can aim, pellets from Ty and Jill pepper him. He crumples and slides down the slope, leaving a filthy red smear in his wake.
The 7.51 snaps a burst at Jill. As she dives to the side, the shots shred the rocks around her. Just before she disappears into cover, a red mist puffs into the air.
No time to worry.
The volcano belches as I launch another stone at the last enemy. While ash falls, the 7.51 dodges with blinding speed and empties the rest of his magazine at Ty. The hypervelocity pellets stitch across his midsection, blowing away chunks of gore, and he tumbles into a depression.
Fearful of the coming encounter with the highest score I’ve ever seen, I slip another rock into the pouch.
A loud whoop echoes, the volume threatening to explode my mind.
Saya.
“Are you trying to get me killed?”
“I’m only saying that he should be the one afraid, not you.”
I roll my eyes as, somehow, the speed of the battle slows for me with even the lightning-quick movements of the 7.51 taking an eternity to complete.
Although nothing is humorous, snickers bubble from my lips.
Jet.
The flashes of brilliance that have dotted this campaign, every smart or good thing I’ve done in this program, come together. My fear of the man and his enormous score dissipates. The fingers of darkness have no business being anywhere near me.
Now to get to the woman with the red mane.
Just as I leap over a lava channel, emerging from the black smoke, the 7.51 completes the reload and swings his rifle in my direction.
With no time to blink, I launch the stone.
He tilts his head, letting the rock pass by his ear, and shoots.
I twist in midair, and pellets whiz past. In a single motion, I throw the remaining rocks at him and yank out my knife.
As he rolls out of the way, I let out a whoop like Saya and slam into him like Block.
He stops my knife by crossing the rifle in front of his face.
Laughter, so genuine the sounds feel disembodied from my mental and physical state, pours from my lips as I slice the blade down the barrel, forcing him to drop the weapon.
The rifle clatters to the rocks, and I whirl on him.
My hand moves so quickly the dazzling arcs of the knife seem to fly in from all angles at once.
The 7.51 goes on the defensive, barely blocking or dodging strikes, without having a chance to pull out his own knife.
With each thrust or slash, I make sure to leave a cut on his hand or wrist as I reset for another attack.
His tough luck to bring bare knuckles to a knife fight.
In desperation, he launches a hook.
Unperturbed, I stab into his bicep as his fist connects with my jaw.
A contest of resilience and pain, I can win.
Another punch breaks a couple of my ribs, while my knife stabs into his side, puncturing his intestines.
He backs away, feet slipping down the slope.
“In any street fight, once in contact, you stay in contact,” Jet says with glee.
I charge after him, not allowing a moment’s respite.
His fist crunches my nose, and stars swirl as my head rocks backward.
My ever-present rage rises, and willing to do whatever it takes to reach the woman with the red mane, I embrace the dark emotion like a long-lost friend.
Nothing will stop me…
I regain my balance and fire the knife past his injured arm, slashing the soft part of his shoulder.
He twists, trying to grab a hold of my wrist, but I’m too quick and drag the blade back, slicing his forearm.
In desperation, he jumps downslope and grabs at his knife.
Seeing only ways of killing him, I follow with a tremendous leap. Before his blade comes out, I stab his shoulder and leave a gash across his face.
He bellows and takes a mad swipe. I suck in my stomach just as the tip passes, and then we slash and thrust at close range.
As the blows crisscross, a chant spills from my mouth. “Pound the meat, cleave the meat, eat the meat.”
Fear widens his eyes, and he redoubles his effort. But his weakened arm can’t keep up with my furious pace, and I score half a dozen hits in a matter of seconds.
After a feint, I kick out his shin.
He swings the knife in a last-ditch attempt to stave off defeat.
With my free hand, I grab his wrist, deflecting the slash enough so that only the edge digs into my side, and fire my blade at his chest.
Weakened and off-balance, he can’t make a defense, and the sharp metal punches through his sternum. As his body sags, his wounded hand claws at my face.
I drive the knife in deeper, wriggling the handle until the tip touches his heart.
The highest scoring opponent I’ve ever faced shudders, and the life fades from his eyes.
A thrill rushes through me.
“Meat!” I say with glee.
Moments pass before rational thought returns in the form of labored breaths and heavy blinks.
I yank out the knife.
As the dead man flops down the slope, I wonder how much I’ve tainted my soul from letting the rage consume me.
Pain surfaces from the injuries I’ve received during the fight.
I grimace and force my broken jaw closed. As I suck air through gritted teeth, I try to straighten my broken nose. After a few bungled attempts, I give up the futile effort.
When I survey the area, only the soft rumbles of the volcano and gurgles of the lava disturb the silence.
Up the slope, Jill shakily stands, holding her bloody abdomen.
I force my exhausted legs to work and make my way to her.
&n
bsp; She points. “Ty’s gone.”
The bearded man lies face up, his body blown apart by the last shots from the 7.51.
Mixed emotions cascade into me as I think of something appropriate to say. While Ty turned out to be a good teammate, he also killed Cat. My anger vacillates because he saved me the trouble of doing the same, or worse, getting killed by her.
“Vic?”
I simply reply, “I’m glad you’re still alive.”
Sadness pools in her eyes. “Should we do anything for him?”
No matter his motives, I can’t forgive him for Cat. I shake my head. “We’ve got to finish this.”
“Do you think there are any more teams?”
My newfound confidence won’t let me admit the obvious, and I settle for replying, “Let’s find out.”
A few minutes of exhausted climbing later, we step into the shadow under the curve of the wall. I hesitate before staggering the final steps and touching the gate pattern carved into the stone.
Cracks form over the smooth surface, and yellow light pulsates from underneath.
As I jump backward, pain shoots from the slice in my side.
When the glowing fractures reach the edges of the rectangles, the solid structure crumbles, and an acidic wind blows a cloud of dust past us.
Too tired to move, I shield my eyes and wait for the storm to pass.
When the air clears, I groan, dropping Cat’s knife with a clatter.
“Shit,” Jill says in a weary voice.
I nod in agreement.
We’re totally screwed.
Sixty-Two
Cut into the rocky slope, a narrow staircase rises, stretching into the gray haze high above us. Somewhere in those impossible heights lies the goal of the campaign and our deliverance from this accursed place.
Jill is deathly pale under a layer of ash and barely standing. I wrap my hand over my side, wincing from the stab wound. I’m not in much better shape.
We might as well be staring at infinity.
Were these stairs even here a second ago? Is the distance a reflection of the odds we still need to conquer in order to reach ten sigmas?
The fight with the five seven’s had to do most of that…
