SINdrome

by J. T. Nicholas

  The ordinance was passed forward and I gave everyone a ten count to get the last of the jitters out. Then I pulled the pins, leaned out fast and tossed a grenade each direction. I was already leaning back in before the first rounds started firing as the enemy positions reacted a touch too slow. I turned my back to the door, clamped my hands over my ears, shut my eyes, and let my mouth hang open. We were far enough away that it might not be necessary, but better safe than sorry. The other detectives and Al both had enough training to respond accordingly. I hoped Tia and LaSorte saw us and copied the pose.

  A few seconds later, there was the earth-shattering kaboom. Okay, not quite that loud, but I sure as fuck was glad I’d covered my ears. The flash wasn’t so bad, distance and corners being what they were, but the concrete hallways did a hell of good job of amplifying and carrying the noise. I was up and moving, my ears still ringing, the second the blast had past. I was conscious of Hernandez on my heels and Al’awwal and Thompson sprinting down the corridor in the other direction.

  We had the shorter dash, about thirty feet of hallway before a new hallway crossed its path and the first one terminated. I slid into the intersection, turning right, Hernandez at my six turning left. Her nine-millimeter started barking a heartbeat before my forty-five. The flashbang had done its job. There were four bad guys on my side of the hallway, all of them disoriented. The one at the back, farthest from the blast, had at least some sense about him still as he was clawing for his weapon. I shot him first, three quick trigger pulls that started center mass but rode upward on the recoil so that the third round drilled a half-inch hole into his forehead. I walked my fire closer, putting rounds into each of the guards. It was cold-blooded. But we didn’t have time to play cop and break out the restraints, even if we’d had any. And we couldn’t afford to leave live enemies at our backs.

  When I’d executed the last guard—no sense in sugar coating it—I turned to find that Hernandez had dealt with hers. Three security guards on her side. Three bodies on the floor. She was executing another combat reload, all with one arm tied behind her back. Okay. In front of, but still. I did a quick mag swap and started moving out, going to support Al’awwal and Thompson, but there was no need. I hadn’t registered their battle, not in the intensity of the moment, but as I turned their way, they were already heading for us.

  “We need to move out,” Al’awwal shouted. “Our guys got a radio message out. They know we’ve broken through this position.”

  Not ideal, but not something we were likely to have been able to prevent, either. Thompson and Tia did another weapon swap, this time on the move as we got the entire group in motion. I felt a little guilty as we swept past the bodies I’d dropped—it was clear they hadn’t made any effort to defend themselves. But only a little. It wasn’t just kill-or-be-killed. It was kill-or-millions-would-die-and-everything-you’ve-done-will-be-for-nothing.

  “Left,” LaSorte called as we reached another intersection. I moved into it, subgun up and ready. We kept moving that way, heads up and on a swivel, following LaSorte’s shouted directions as he guided us through the labyrinth of the underground facility and toward the upper floors and freedom. We weren’t able to move at a sprint, or even a run. With Fortier lamed, the best we could do was a sort of half-jog. Even that was wearing on LaSorte, Fortier, and even Hernandez, whose wound had to be paining her.

  “Right,” LaSorte said as we approached another intersection.

  I hugged the wall and popped around the corner and ran full tilt into the enemy. They’d been running as well, clearly trying to get to some position, somewhere. We were intermixed before I could even shout a warning, and the hall erupted into chaos and gunfire.

  For a frantic moment it was all assholes and elbows, as both teams intermingled and tried to separate the good guys from bad. I punched the barrel of the subgun forward, slamming it hard into the chest of a security guard, and pulled the trigger at contact range. Then I twisted to the side, letting the falling corpse past. That gave me line of sight to another security guard, who was posting up, bringing his weapon to bear and training it on Tia. Fuck that. I dropped him with three quick shots and then the roar of Tia’s shotgun momentarily deafened me. I felt something slam into my plate carrier, heard someone else cry out in pain. The staccato pops of Al’awwal’s bullpup sounded, and two more bad guys dropped.

  Then it was over. I did a quick count. Counted again. Ten bad guys down.

  But only five of us standing.

  LaSorte and Fortier were both on the ground. Fortier didn’t look like he’d been hit, just dropped when LaSorte fell. But the synthetic had one hand clenched tight to his side, and I could see the blood welling out from between his fingers. “Medic,” I shouted, mostly by force of habit, before turning my gaze on Tia.

  She was white as a sheet, fingers trembling on the shotgun she held. Her eyes were locked on one of the security guards. Or what was left of him. The shotty was loaded with solid slugs, and a full ounce of lead did very bad things to the human head. Odds were, she hadn’t been going for a headshot, but the top half of the security guard’s nugget had disintegrated, painting the wall behind him. “Be sick about it later,” I snapped, grabbing her arm and pushing her toward Fortier and LaSorte. I hated to do it, but we didn’t have time to coddle anyone. “Anyone else hit?”

  “You are,” Hernandez said, leaning against the wall as she did another one-handed reload. Everyone else was doing the same, making sure their weapons were ready for the next engagement. I was about to follow suit, when Hernandez’s comment reminded me of the impact on my plate carrier. I reached down, felt for the wound. It was right over my solar plexus.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, as I pulled out chunks of the shattered ceramic plate. “Too close.”

  “You okay?” Al asked, looking back down the hallway rather than in my direction.

  “No blood,” I said. “Hurts a little to breathe.” I didn’t realize it until I’d said it, but it was true. “I’ll be fine. Tia? How are LaSorte and Fortier?”

  Fortier beat her to the answer. “I’m fine. Wish this fucking leg would stop bleeding, but if someone can lend me an arm, I’m ready.”

  “LaSorte will be okay, too,” Tia said, voice quiet. She still looked shaky, but tending to the wounded seemed to have centered her. “Just a crease. Painful, but no real risk.”

  “Can you still help Fortier?” I asked the synthetic who was being pulled to his feet by Tia.

  “I think so,” he replied.

  “Good. We can’t afford to take shooters off the line. Are we ready to move?” I got thumbs up all around and nodded. “Let’s do it, then.” We shuffled to our feet, but before we could start moving, one of the hallway doors sprang open. A team of three Walton personnel emptied into the hallway, already firing.

  I felt two hits on my back, and they threw me to the ground. I managed to spin as I fell, landing on my knees facing the shooters, and I saw LaSorte, Fortier, and Tia all drop before the barrage.

  “Mother fucker!” I screamed. My vision went red and I was aware, tangentially, of my finger working the trigger as I used my legs and one arm to half crawl, half throw myself forward. I got the first one with three or four rounds, and put a few more into the second. The third was too close, the barrel of his Brazilian subgun swiveling down to meet me, so I dropped my own weapon and grabbed the barrel. It was hot as shit, but I didn’t feel it, yanking it past me and down as he fired, the rounds going off so close to my head that my hearing was replaced with a loud whine.

  The unexpected tug cost the shooter his balance though, and he hit the ground hard. I was on him, straddling his back, before he’d had the chance to bounce. I sent elbow after elbow into the exposed bit of neck between his ballistic helmet and his vest. I heard something crack. Maybe from him, maybe me, but I didn’t care. It was Annabelle all over again. I wasn’t going to stop until I took his fucking head off.


  “Campbell! Campbell! Jason!”

  Tia was screaming at me. Tia. Tia was screaming at me. Annabelle was dead. Tia was dead. Dead like Annabelle. I’d seen the shooters drop her. But the dead didn’t scream. My vision cleared.

  She was standing over me, shaking me, trying to get me to come back to myself. I scanned her, looking for injuries. Her nose and mouth were bleeding, probably impact from hitting the floor. But I didn’t see any other blood. No other injuries.

  “Jason, stop,” she said, her voice pleading.

  For a second, I didn’t understand. Then I looked down at the man I’d tackled. Or what was left of him. Sometime during the barrage of blows, his helmet had come loose. Sometime later, his skull had split. I’d been pounding my elbow repeatedly down into a pulpy mass of shattered bone and liquifying brain tissue. It was…unpleasant. I could feel the pain shooting through my elbow, knew that I probably had fragments of the guard’s skull lodged in it. I didn’t care.

  Tia was alive.

  I scanned the hall. Al and Thompson had taken up guard positions, watching all avenues, alert for the possibility of more attackers. Stupid. Not them. Me. Should have ordered that to begin with. “How?” I asked, not sure what I was asking.

  “A couple of rounds hit my pack,” she explained. “I got lucky. We all got lucky. They didn’t penetrate the pack, and they missed most of the retrovirus.”

  “Fortier? LaSorte?”

  “It’s bad,” Tia acknowledged. “But let me look at you, first. You’re bleeding.” She looked at the corpse I was riding with disgust, but still said, “Don’t move, okay? I need to look at your back.”

  At that point, the pain hit. It hurt most right over my kidney. I remembered now, getting hit again, but there should have been a plate there. The vital organs all had plates over them. So why the hell did it hurt so bad?

  “The plate shattered,” Tia said as if reading my mind. “A good chunk of a ceramic shard broke off. It looks like it’s pierced your back. I can’t tell how deep.”

  “Pull it,” I said.

  “That’s incredibly dangerous,” she replied. “It’s better to leave it—”

  I cut her off. “No. I know. It’s better to leave it in. If you can get to a hospital. Or immobilize the patient. We can’t do either. Yank the fucker and let’s see what happens. It’s move or die, Tia, and I can’t move with a knife in the back.”

  “Fine, you stubborn ass.” I didn’t think that was particularly fair, and neither was the sharp, sudden pain as she pulled the shard free. For a second, I thought the pain was going to make me vomit, but then it eased. Which is to say, it hurt like hell, but I could move.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Help me up?”

  She grunted and pulled me to my feet. My back hurt. My chest hurt. Hell, my everything hurt, but I was still operational. Maybe we had a chance.

  Then I saw Fortier. And LaSorte.

  Both were leaning up against a wall, next to each other. Fortier’s already injured leg was red with new blood; he had torn the wound open somewhere along the way. But his left arm was also shredded, hanging limply below a tourniquet that crossed his biceps. I could see the bones of his arm, so mangled was the wound. His face was paper white, but his eyes were open, somehow holding on to consciousness.

  LaSorte didn’t look much better. He was hunched forward, head in his hands. His side was still bleeding, adding its own red stain to the pool collecting around Fortier. I couldn’t see any new wounds on him.

  “He saved me,” LaSorte whispered as I limped over to them. “Shoved me out of the way. He took bullets meant for me.”

  I looked at Fortier with a new appreciation and an arched eyebrow. Tia had rematerialized at his side, and was administering something from a syringe. I wasn’t sure how deep her medkit ran, but I was damn glad she had it. Now that she’d mentioned it, I could see the bullet holes in the pack on her back. Which reminded me of the gash in mine.

  Fortier gave a wan smile and a one-armed shrug. “Seemed like I owed synthetics something,” he grated.

  I was eying him appraisingly. “We have to move out,” I said.

  He snorted. “Fuck you, Campbell. I’m done following you around. I’ve finally found a nice comfortable bit of hallway. Think I’ll just stay here.” The words were flippant, but his eyes were somber. He knew that there was no way he was going to walk. Getting him out would require a stretcher and a couple of bodies. And even then… I looked at the blood, at his color. At Tia’s expression. They told a clear story. Fortier wasn’t going to make it. The grin on his face told me he knew it, too.

  “What?” LaSorte demanded, turning on Fortier. “You can’t. Campbell. He saved my life. We can’t just leave him.”

  “Got to, kid,” Fortier growled. I wondered if Fortier had any idea that LaSorte, despite all appearances, may well have been older than him. “Try to drag me with you, and I’ll slow you down. Plus, if I move much, it’ll probably kill me. Right, doc?” he asked, looking at Tia, who was securing the remnants of his lower arm as much as possible. The fact that Fortier wasn’t reacting at all to her ministration of the grievous wound was either a testament to the power of the drugs Tia had given him or, more likely, a combination of the tightness of the tourniquet and the onset of shock.

  “Contact left,” Al snapped, following the words with a salvo from his bull pup.

  Thompson’s sidearm, a .357 revolver, also roared. “Contact rear,” he added as he pulled a speed loader out of a dump pouch to make a quick reload if the need arose.

  “You gotta move, Campbell,” Fortier said. “Wish I could say it’s been fun. But you’re a fucker and I never did like you. “Even if you turned out to be right.” A faint flush managed to suffuse his face, despite the blood loss. “Tell my girls how I died.” Then he pulled the quick release strap on his subgun, letting it fall to the ground, and unholstered his pistol. He pulled a couple of extra mags from his dump pouches and set them in his lap. “Anyone got a real grenade?” he asked.

  “We only managed to smuggle out two,” Hernandez said as she approached. She pulled the ordinance from her pack, and passed them over.

  “I’ll buy you as much time as I can. But you better get the fuck out now.” He pulled the pin from one grenade with his teeth, but didn’t release the spoon. Instead, he stuck the grenade under his good leg, using the weight to keep the spoon from ejecting and priming the trigger. He pulled the pin on the next grenade and held it in his hand. With the pistol in his lap, a grenade in hand, another ready to blow if he so much as moved, he was ready to put up a hell of a last stand.

  I reached down and gave his good shoulder a squeeze. “Wish I’d had the chance to get to know this Fortier,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” he replied. But he said it with a smile.

  LaSorte was still looking poleaxed, but I dragged him to his feet. “Get it together, LaSorte,” I barked, my face inches from his, trying to snap him out of it. “You’re the only one that can get us out of this shithole. And according to Silas, you’re the one that has all the keys to keep the revolution running. So, we don’t have fucking time to coddle you.”

  He licked his lips, looked from me to Fortier. Winced as more gunshots rattled off from Al and Thompson.

  “We gotta move!” Thompson shouted.

  “Understood, Detective,” LaSorte said. The words were shaky, and he couldn’t stop looking at Fortier, but he said them. Something in his tone, or maybe the words themselves, reminded me, just a little, of Silas.

  “Good. Hernandez, me and you got point. Al, Thompson, keep up your fire from the rear. Make sure you don’t hit Fortier. Tia, LaSorte. In the middle. Let’s move out.”

  I saw Tia pull one more syringe from her pouch and inject Fortier before standing up and joining us. Fortier looked immediately better, sighing a bit and taking a firmer grip on the grenade he held. The pain had eased
from his face.

  We moved quickly down the hallway, leaving Fortier leaning against the wall, staring intently in the direction of the enemy.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Powerful narcotic,” she replied. Then frowned. “Related to heroin. All the rage on the streets. It will probably kill him, especially with everything else I pumped him full of. But not for a few minutes.”

  I nodded. Fortier wasn’t going to last a few minutes, anyway. “Got any more?”

  “A couple.”

  That was comforting.

  We moved out. I trusted Al and Thompson to make sure the security behind us kept their heads down. Then we rounded another corner, breaking line of sight. Thompson and Al stopped shooting, but even through the ringing in my ears I heard the faint sounds of a heavy metal object striking concrete. A second later a thunderous explosion rocked the halls. Then the sound of smaller caliber fire—Fortier’s pistol—took up the cadence, counterpointed by fire from the security subguns. I shook my head. The universe was upside down. Silas was dead and Francois fucking Fortier was making an honest-to-god heroic last stand so that we could get away. They awarded the Medal of Honor—posthumously—for that sort of thing in the green machine.