by Amie Kaufman
THE BOY IN FRONT. THE BRIGAND PRINCE. HIS PRINCESS’S KISS DRIED LONG AGO UPON HIS LIPS. PAUSING AT JUNCTIONS TO CONSULT THE MAP CRUMPLED IN ONE HAND. BUT HE KNOWS THE WAY.
FOR ALL HIS AVOIDANCE/DEFLECTION/DENIAL, HE IS GOOD AT THIS.
THE RHYTHM. THE CHANT.
THE KILLING SONG.
IT IS IN HIS BLOOD.
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” SHE ASKS.
“TRUST ME,” HE BEGS.
AND SHE DOES. I BEGIN TO FATHOM WHY. I SEE IT IN HER EYES WHEN SHE LOOKS AT HIM. THE WAY SHE CLUTCHES HIS HAND, LIKE DRIFTWOOD IN A DROWNING SEA. THE ONLY SOLID THING LEFT IN ALL HER WORLDS.
< ERROR >
OR SO SHE THINKS. SHE DOES NOT SEE THE DISSONANCE YET.
HE PAUSES, BREATHLESS, AT A STAIRWELL DOOR, SPEAKS INTO HIS HEADSET.
“CHIEF GRANT, YOU READING ME?”
“I HEAR YOU, NIK. ARE YOU TWO OKAY? WHAT WAS THAT TREMOR A WHILE BACK?”
“WARMEST PART OF THE REACTOR AREA IS GONNA BE DIRECTLY UNDER THE HEAT EXCHANGERS, RIGHT?”
“YES, DOWN NEAR THE COOLING TOWERS. LEVEL 27. WHY?”
“WHAT TEMP IS THE COOLANT YOU PUMP FROM THOSE TOWERS?”
“IT’D DEPEND. MAYBE NEGATIVE EIGHTY DEGREES CELSIUS?”
“OKAY, THANKS.”
“NIK, WHAT—”
GRABBING THE GIRL’S HAND, HE DRAGS HER INTO THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL.
THE SATCHEL FULL OF EXPLOSIVES BOUNCING ON HIS BACK.
“NIK, WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
“DOWN. WHERE IT’S WARM.”
THE MEMORY OF BLACK TONGUES SHINES IN HER EYES.
“…WON’T THOSE THINGS BE DOWN THERE TOO?”
“HOPE SO.”
THEY DESCEND. GASPING. SWEATING. OUT OF THE SOFT GRAVITY AT THE STATION’S HUB. UNTIL FINALLY THEY BURST FROM THE STAIRWELL AND FIND IT LAID OUT BEFORE THEM.
THE LAST THREE STORIES OF THE REACTOR AREA, FILLED BY A SPRAWLING SNARL OF CONDUITS, TOWERING STEEL, GANTRIES, WALKWAYS, PRESSURE VALVES, ALL COATED, DRIPPING, GLISTENING WITH SPIRALING PATTERNS OF UN-COLORED SLIME.
EMERGENCY LIGHTING PAINTS THE AIR RED. HISSING STEAM. CLOUDS OF VAPOR. A DARK JUNGLE OF STEEL PIPES AND MONOLITHS COOLING THE REACTOR’S FIRE AND KEEPING THIS NOW-BROKEN CIRCLE SPINNING ENDLESSLY.
< ERROR >
THE BOY SQUEEZES HIS GIRL’S HAND.
“STAY CLOSE, HIGHNESS.”
THE PAIR RUN TO A MASSIVE NEST OF PIPING BENEATH TOWER 6. SCANNING THE GLOOM, SQUINTING THROUGH THE SEETHING WASH OF STEAM.
THE GIRL HAS HER PISTOL IN HAND, FLINCHING AT SHADOWS.
THE BOY SEARCHES THE PIPES ABOVE, FINDING THE ONE HE SEEKS AT LAST. A THIN RED SERPENT, STUDDED WITH NOZZLES, CRAWLING THE TOWER’S BELLY.
AND REACHING INTO HIS SUIT’S POCKET, HE DRAWS OUT HIS CIGARETTE LIGHTER, HOLDS IT UP TO THE SPRINKLER SYSTEM AND SPARKS THE FLINT.
IT TAKES A MOMENT FOR THE SYSTEM TO REGISTER THE HEAT, FOR THE VALVES TO OPEN,
AND AT LAST, AS THE CORRUPTED PA BEGINS SCREAMING, FOR THE RAIN TO FALL.
“JESUS, THIS SONG,” HE GROANS. “SOMEBODY JUST SHOOT ME…”
THE BOY SMACKS HIS PISTOL AGAINST THE PIPING, A HOLLOW CLANG UNDERSCORING HIS SHOUT.
“OKAY, COME GET IT, ****ERS!”
THE GIRL CLUTCHES HIS HAND.
“NIK, STOP. ELLA SAID THOSE THINGS ARE ATTRACTED TO NOISE.”
THE BOY PULLS LOOSE, SMACKS THE PIPE AGAIN AND AGAIN, A GONG SINGING IN THE HISSING RAIN.
“NIK, ARE YOU CRAZY? YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE RINGING A ****ING DINNER BELL!”
“YEAH. AND DINNER’S ON ITS WAY.”
THE BOY DROPS HIS SATCHEL, DRAGS OUT A SMALL WAD OF THERMEX 7 EXPLOSIVE, THUMBS IT AND A RADIO STUD ONTO THE BULGING COOLANT PIPE ABOVE HIS HEAD. HE PLACES ANOTHER WAD AND STUD BEHIND THEM. AND FINALLY, HE BACKS AWAY. DETONATOR IN HAND.
THE GIRL LOOKS AROUND THEM, REALIZATION DAWNING IN HER EYES.
PEERING INTO THE SWIRLING CLOUDS OF SPRAY AND VAPOR, SHE SEES THE FIRST OF THEM. FLICKERING TONGUES AND WICKED TEETH GLEAMING IN THE DOWNPOUR.
A DOZEN MORE CRAWLING ACROSS CEILINGS AND FLOORS TOWARD THEM ON LONG BLACK FINGERS.
DRAWN BY THE NOISE, THE WARMTH, BUT ABOVE ALL, THEM.
THE BOY PUTS HIS ARMS AROUND HER. PULLS HER CLOSE AS SHE WHISPERS,
“ARE YOU SURE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING?”
HE RAISES THE DETONATOR IN HIS HAND.
“I HOPE SO,” HE SAYS.
AND HE PRESSES THE TRIGGER.
RADIO TRANSMISSION: BEITECH AUDIT TEAM—SECURE CHANNEL 112
PARTICIPANTS:
Travis “Cerberus” Falk, Lieutenant, Team Commander
Fleur “Kali” Russo, Sergeant, Alpha Squad–Leader Abby “Nightingale” O’Neill, Corporal, Medic
Naxos “Two-Time” Antoniou, Private, Communications
Marta “Eden” Alievi, Private, Logistics
Samuel “Rapier” Maginot, Infiltrator
DATE: 08/16/75
TIMESTAMP: 16:01
CERBERUS: Audit team personnel, audit team personnel, this is Cerberus.
CERBERUS: Mantis reports a fire alarm down on Reactor Level 27 but no corresponding temperature spike. These rabbits have used the alarms to lead us on a merry dance before, so take no chances. They have no way out down there except back up through us.
CERBERUS: Kali, I want you and Alpha Squad with me, main elevators. Nightingale, Eden, you stay at the ventilation junctions between 26 and 27. I want anything moving in those vents flatlined. Two-Time, you and Rapier cover Stairwells A and B. X anything that doesn’t ID itself.
KALI: Cerberus, Kali. Roger that, Alpha Squad good to go.
EDEN: Copy, Cerberus, Nightingale and I got vents. Tight squeeze in here.
NIGHTINGALE: Said the vicar to the nun.
KALI: Crissakes, Abby, you want to get your head in the ****ing game or keep cracking wise and lose your other eye?
CERBERUS: Ladies, keep it civil or take it outside. Two-Time, confirm receipt of order.
TWO-TIME: Cerberus, Two-Time, copy that. Rapier, you got Stairwell B, I got A, acknowledge?
RAPIER: Two-Time, this is Rapier. Stairwell B, roger that.
CERBERUS: Shoot to kill, my lovelies. Cerberus out.
NO INCANDESCENT BOOM. NO SHATTERING CONFLAGRATION.
THE BOY USED BARELY A THIMBLEFUL OF THERMEX.
BUT STILL THE EXPLOSIVE BURNS WHITE HOT FOR THE SMALLEST BREATH, MELTING TWO HOLES THROUGH THE COOLANT PIPES AND SPILLING THE LIQUID FROST WITHIN.
ARTIC CHILL RIPS THE AIR, TURNING SPRINKLER RAIN TO BRIEFEST SNOW AND NOONTIME WARMTH TO BOILING CLOUDS OF MORNING FOG.
THE HUNTERS RECOIL FROM THE SNAP FREEZE SLICKING THE WET PIPES AND FLOORS WITH DARK, GLEAMING ICE. THEY THRASH AND LICK THE AIR, HISSING FRUSTRATION. THE ALARM. THE RAIN. THE BOYPREY, NOW BEATING THE PIPES AND SHOUTING AGAIN.
ALL
THIS
NOISE.
THE OBJECTS OF THEIR LUST/HUNGER/RAGE TOO FAR INTO THE BITTER COLD TO REACH.
BUT AUTO-SHUTOFF SYSTEMS QUICKLY ENGAGE. THE SPRAY OF COOLANT FROM BENEATH TOWER 6 BECOMES A TRICKLE, THEN NOTHING AT ALL.
THE HUNTERS KNOW ICE MELTS. FROST FAILS. EVEN SNOW DIES. THEY NEED ONLY WAIT FOR THE REACTOR’S WARMTH TO OVERCOME THIS FADING WINTER SO THEY MIGHT SWIM IN THE WARM HOLLOWS BEHIND THE PREYTHINGS’ EYES. THEY NEED ONLY WAIT TO FEED.
BUT THEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS PING OPEN, CORRUPTED SOUNDWAVES ADDING TO THE ALARM’S CACOPHONY AS MORE PREYTHINGS ARRIVE.
ONE OF THE NEWCOMERS—BLOND, FEMALE—SPIES HER TARGETS FIRST—THE BOYPREY AND THE GIRLPREY HUDDLED BENEATH TOWER 6 IN A HALO OF MELTING ICE—AND SHE ROARS, RAISES HER WEAPON, FIRES.
MUZZLES FLASH IN THE DARK, BULLETS SPARKING OFF THE METAL BESIDE THE BOYPREY’S HEAD. THE GIRLPREY DRAGS HIM BEHIND COVER AS THE GRENADES START TO FLY.
THE DOOR TO STAIRWELL A BURSTS OPEN, A HAIL OF AUTO-FIRE SPRAYING FROM THE SHADOWS.
A TALL ONE ROARS TO THE OTHERS AS HIS WEAPON SPITS DEATH.
THEY FAN OUT ACROSS THE ROOM, SWIFT AND SURGICAL, THE STEPS OF THIS BRUTAL BALLET KN
OWN BY HEART.
THE BOYPREY AND THE GIRLPREY CROUCHED BEHIND A TANGLE OF FROZEN PIPING, WINCING AND FLINCHING AS THE AIR EXPLODES AROUND THEM. THE ALARM. THE SONG. THE RAIN. THE NEWCOMERS BLASTING AWAY.
ALL
THIS
NOISE.
AND IN THE MIDST OF IT ALL, THE TRUE HUNTERS IN THIS LAIR RAISE THEIR MANY HEADS AND TEACH THE NEWCOMERS WHAT IT IS TO BE PREY.
THEY RUN.
HAND IN HAND.
AWAY FROM THE AMBUSH.
AWAY FROM THE HUNTERS, WHO FOR ALL THEIR TEETH AND TONGUES DID NOT EXPECT TO BE MET WITH QUITE SO MANY BULLETS.
THE BOY AND GIRL SEIZE THEIR MOMENT, SCRAMBLING TO THEIR FEET AMID THE HAIL OF BURNING FRAGMENTATION AND SCREAMS, STUMBLING THROUGH THE FOREST OF PIPES AND STEAM TOWARD ESCAPE.
THEY SEE IT GLEAMING IN THE DARK. A DISTANT STAIRWELL THAT LEADS BACK UP TOWARD THE HUB AND, IN ALL THE CHAOS AND LIGHT AND FURY, APPEARS UNMANNED.
THEY DASH TOWARD IT, BOOTS POUNDING METAL, RUNNING THE MAZE OF PIPES AND GANTRIES, VALVES AND INTAKES, SO CLOSE TO ESCAPE THEY CAN ALMOST TOUCH IT.
AND OUT OF THE DARK BEFORE THEM, HE RISES. THE DOT OF HIS LASER SIGHT GLEAMING RED BETWEEN HER EYES.
THE BOY WHO PROMISED HER A WHOLE SKY OF DIFFERENT STARS.
THE TRAITOR WHO TORE HER HEART, STILL BLEEDING, FROM HER CHEST.
< ERROR >
AND SHE SPITS IT OUT. AS IF A MOUTHFUL OF POISON. A CONDEMNATION OF ALL HE DID AND ALL HE IS. THE NAME THAT IS NOT EVEN HIS.
“JACKSON.”
The trio hang motionless. The slaughter rings out behind them—full-auto fire and explosions, shrieks of alien agony and human terror. But the three of them just hang still, as if time has no meaning at all.
Donnelly’s expression is pure hatred. Mouth twisted in a snarl.
“Jackson.”
Malikov’s pistol is in his hand. You can see him weighing the chances of getting a shot off, but first he needs to get that laser sight aimed somewhere other than between Donnelly’s eyes. So he steps forward, spitting through clenched teeth.
“Merrick, you gutless ****ing trai—”
The rifle shifts to him like clockwork. “Shut up, Malikov. This isn’t about you.”
Donnelly steps in to block Rapier’s shot. “Don’t point that thing at him. Don’t you dare.”
Rapier blinks. Breath catching as he realizes.
“Him?” he whispers. “…You choose him?”
She stares defiantly. Reaches back and finds Malikov’s hand.
“What about us?” Rapier asks.
“Us?” she scoffs.
“Hanna…Hanna, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t know they planned any of this. I was just supposed to censor comms, make sure—”
“**** your apologies,” she spits. “People are dead because of you. There is no us, do you understand? There’s nothing between us. Nothing.”
“There was. You cared about me. I know you did. And I still care about you.”
“You care about me?” She actually laughs. “Says the guy pointing a gun at me?”
Anger darkens his face, voice rising. “I’m just trying to explain—”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want your explanations! It’s not about what you say, Jackson. It’s what you do that matters here.”
He glances over her shoulder, toward the echoes of the battle around the cooling towers. The gunfire is sporadic now, sealed tactical armor and explosives and hollow-points proving a match for hallucinogenic toxins and teeth. Blood is being spilled on both sides. The floors drenched with it. And over the sounds of the murder all around, he can hear heavy footsteps approaching at a sprint, Kali’s voice hissing in his commset above the carnage.
“Rapier, targets inbound on your position!”
He blinks the sweat from his eyes as Falk roars down comms.
“Fleur, get back on the ****ing line!”
Malikov’s muscles tense for a spring.
“Rapier, this is Kali, do you have them?”
“FLEUR, GET BACK HERE!”
The boy named Rapier is staring at Donnelly. Jaw clenched. You can see it in his eyes. How a simple job has spiraled so horribly out of control. How everything he’s said and done, all the sweet smiles and twists of the knife and lies, has led him right to this point. This moment.
It’s not about what you say, Jackson. It’s what you do that matters here.
He drums his fingers along his rifle’s grip. Opens his mouth to speak.
To let them go? Order them to their knees?
Either way, Rapier never gets the chance to talk.
The darkness behind him uncoils in a long, glistening length. Rapier turns as it hits him, the lanima seizing his throat and wrapping around him with a hiss. It’s a big one—almost a meter and a half. The kid goes down with a cry, rifle shots ricocheting off the metal beside Donnelly’s head. Malikov yells, drags her aside as Rapier rolls about on the floor, clawing and punching at the thing atop him, its tongues lashing the visor over his face.
Donnelly cries out, steps forward and seizes one flailing head, tries to drag it off. Despite everything, all he’s done, the danger she’s in, she’s somehow compelled to help him. Malikov’s more concerned about the approaching boots, the squad of killers wading through the blood at their backs. His ambush, his trick with the coolant and the alarms—all of it—only bought them seconds, and those seconds are ticking away. And happy to let one of his uncle Mike’s “babies” avenge their daddy’s murder, he grabs Donnelly’s arm, drags her to the stairwell.
“Hanna, come on!”
She lingers another second. Staring at this boy who claimed to love her, rolling about in a knot of colliding colors and teeth.
“Hanna, come on!”
Malikov drags Donnelly through the stairwell door, the sound of their feet pounding the stairs fading beneath the chattering gunfire and thundering grenade bursts. Rapier is still thrashing about on the deck, drawing his pistol, teeth gritted, fist choking one of four flailing necks. He raises the weapon, another neck wrapping his pistol hand to the elbow, just as Kali rounds the corner. Rifle up, blond hair tangled across her eyes.
She takes in the scene, takes a knee, takes careful aim.
Fires.
A jawless head explodes in a spray of black blood. The thing choking Rapier hisses. Two more heads explode in quick succession, the last dropping limp and dead as Rapier curses, flails, and with Kali’s help, kicks his way free of the twitching corpse.
“Rapier, where are they?”
The kid clutches the dented collar of his suit. Red-faced. Great, ragged breaths hissing through his teeth. Shakes his head.
Kali clutches his arm. Demands to know the direction Donnelly headed. The kid only croaks in response. But with a glance at the open stairwell door, the woman spits a curse and dashes away. Away from her remaining squad members, the battle, the bloodbath behind her. I guess she figures the rest of the lanima can wait.
She has bigger kittens to kill.
Those kittens are sprinting up the stairwell now, feet pounding metal, up, up, up. Donnelly’s fitter and doesn’t smoke, so she’s taken the lead, but Malikov, gasping hard, is right on her tail. The pair drag themselves up out of the earth-standard gravity at the station’s periphery, their weight easing as they approach the Hub. A glance down the spiral behind reveals Kali, five stories below and gaining.
The woman’s just a hate machine at this point. Kinda frightening to watch her. Not an ounce of fat on her body, muscle and rage propelling her up the stairs three at a time. No energy wasted on threats or bullets blasted up the stairwell in the hope of a lucky shot. She knows she can outrun them. All she needs to do is keep them in sight, and sooner or later the hunt is done.
“**** me,” Malikov wheezes. “I gotta…quit smoking.”
Donnelly smiles over her shoulder despite herself. “Chances of me making out with you again will probably improve if you do.”
Malikov reaches into his enviros
uit’s outer pocket as he runs, fishes out a crumpled packet of Tarannosaurus Rex™ cigarettes and sends it sailing down the stairwell.
“Fly free, little buddies.”
“Talk less. Run more.”
“Where we…going anyway?”
“Hub. Can jump the grav-rail…back to Alpha. Or the Ent Center. Maybe Ella can open some doors for us. If not…improvise.”
“We didn’t finish breaking the…reactor.” Malikov coughs, lifts his visor to spit. “The assault fleet, the drones…”
“Run now. Worry later.”
So run they do. Kali gaining every step. They reach the boarding platforms for the grav-rail on Level 3. The system is a magnetic monorail, two trains of four cars each, constantly traversing the station’s hub. The pair barrel out onto the platform, Malikov bumping into Donnelly as she pulls up short.
Of course, there’s no train waiting for them.
The platform’s totally empty.
“****…,” Donnelly breathes.
Malikov leans back into the stairwell, draws his pistol. He catches movement two stories below, unloads half a dozen rounds. Kali presses back against the wall out of sight, but he still empties the rest of his clip to buy them seconds. She dashes clear as he’s reloading, coming into view again one floor below. Malikov blasts away again, and this time Kali returns fire with her burst rifle—pinpoint accuracy even after a twenty-four-story sprint. Shots ricochet around Malikov’s head, and the kid retreats with a curse—crack shot he might be, but he’s clearly outclassed.
Kali’s up and running again without missing a beat, reloading as she comes.
A train rounds the Hub and decelerates into the station.
“Go, go!” Malikov shouts.
Donnelly runs, Malikov right behind her. Across the polished metal and corrugated rubber tiles, toward the gleaming serpent.
“I’m dry, toss me a mag,” Malikov gasps.
Donnelly fishes about her suit as she sprints, wrenching open the zipper at her breast pocket and dragging out a clip of Silverback ammo.
And from the same pocket, her journal slips.
