Archer hit the vehicle’s roof with a shuddering clang, his suit soaking up much of the shock. The Shade tilted its head toward him. Archer fired his gun, the rounds punching into the solid monster’s sweaty chest. But that merely enraged the Delta. The creature bent its head like a fighting bull and charged. Archer continued to fire on the Delta — until he got officially sick of that horseshit and charge too, switching in a blur to his melee weapon.
Instead of a usual combat knife, Archer carried a wakizashi, a traditional samurai short sword. It was in his belt, in the back on a side-draw arrangement. Designed precisely for drawing and striking in the same motion, the blade described a tight arc while separating the creature’s head from its torso. The deadly abomination lost all its animation and the Delta’s body fell sideways with a wet sound.
Yeah, that works better, Archer thought, and he turned just in time to catch a brief glance of Schaeffer getting out of the building by its front doors — smart man —, his rifle hanging from the tactical sling as he used his arms to grasp a Shade.
Somehow, Schaeffer took the back of the monster’s head on hands and slammed it into the building wall, once, using all the potency endowed by his exosuit. There was an implosion of blood and bones as the whole skull was propelled through the bricks. The Delta’s body went limp but still stood upright, the head permanently stuck in the wall.
The last Delta attacked him and Schaeffer sidestepped the monster, barely avoiding its talons. Schaeffer sprang off his back foot and launched his entire weight behind his strike, the exoskeleton making its own calculations in a heartbeat. His hands were covered by gloves of steel and ceramic plates; otherwise, he’d easily break his fingers as the exoskeleton plunged his arm with the strength of fifteen men.
When his fist smashed into the Shade’s deformed jaw, it almost ripped it off from the thing’s face. The creature dropped with its arms, legs and neck tilting at unnatural angles — but alive! Schaeffer replied this by jamming the barrel of his rifle against the temple and firing a long burst of suppressed 7.62 rounds.
“That’s the American Way, motherfuckers!” Schaeffer said, and then the area was quiet, with nothing but the sounds of post-fight in the air.
“Looks like we got them all…” said Archer. Both men retrieve their weapons and reset. With the coast clear for the moment, they moved looking for the cars.
It took five minutes to find a black four-door Amarok pickup truck and a pinky Audio R9. Archer took a series of deep breaths as he looked over at Schaeffer.
“Do you think the boss will be mad if we give him the pink one?” he asked.
“You know what?” Schaeffer put his gas mask away to spit on the ground, “After that, I think he can shove his judgment in the ass.”
DARK TIMES
First the darkness...
There were silence and peacefulness inside. he seconds passed, and he could hear his own breathing like an echo in a cave. Then, for a short time, there were voices above him, in the distance, but not much far away.
“Is he dead?”
It was difficult to determine what they said, or even to fit them into some scenery and find their meaning. His mind loosened from his body. The outside world remains on its original course as he was thrown down a more treacherous path. He was leaving reality in favor of a dominion full of shadowy memories, a place where all the pieces and secrets were mixed.
The landscape around him was remodeling.
“Look at this amount of blood...”
Clear, clean and blue sky…
A street… Houses, apartments…
The light… it was so strong…
“Don’t touch him! He may be infected!”
He raised his hand to block the sunlight striking his eyes, and his vision focused on a particular building. The edifice was a good two hundred yards, but he got there in no more than five paces. Five more steps and he was standing outside an apartment door.
He reached for the doorknob and opened the door, entering cautiously. What house was that? He couldn’t see the details, but there was something in his heart that recognized the walls and windows, the carefully selected furniture — some still to be paid for — the living room, the kitchen, and the two bedrooms in the back...
That was his home. That was his home!
“I think he’s waking up.”
“Shit, shoot him! It’s the best we can do. Shoot, dammit! Shoot!”
He sat on one of the sofas in the living room, feeling the memorable softness, listening to its characteristic squeak. Two seconds later the woman joined him, almost jumping in his lap, asking something. She moved her mouth, but there was no sound. She spoke to him; he replied. The words that they exchanged were beyond his reach, a secret that wouldn’t be revealed to him. Nevertheless, it didn’t matter — because there, in that house, she had a name, she had an identity. He knew who she was.
When the conversation ended, a third figure joined the couple.
It was a boy of ten years, holding a book.
It was his son, and the title on the book cover was I, Robot by Isaac Asimov.
♦♦♦
When Asimov awoke, the first thing he understood was that he was lying down. Some shapes slowly came to view. In the first instant, nothing it made sense to him. The seconds went by and his brain began to interpret the signals.
He was in a small room, lying on a narrow bed.
He was covered, without his shirt and barefoot.
Asimov tried to remember what he had seen — it was a dream, right? With what, he couldn’t remember, no matter how great was his effort, though curious glimpses passed through his head like flashes of light.
He set the blanket aside and saw his chest and stomach covered in tight bandages. There were a dozen stitched cuts, at least. That sight made him sick. He took a deep breath and his chest filled with pain. Then his broken mind began to remember the last events. None of the facts came together coherently for him — they seemed to drift around him; with the memories, also came the pain.
Olivia, Thomas…
His whole body was on fire. It was worse than last time, when he woke up on that deserted beach — much worse because that pain meant he was back in the real world, a world he didn’t understand and was starting to hate. It meant that the events of that day hadn’t been a hallucination or a nightmare. No, the dream was that happy place where he was a few minutes ago, not the other way around.
Asimov placed his right hand over the head and noticed that they also wrapped bandages in his wound there. Looking at the only good side, at least he wouldn’t die from infection in the head. Asimov tried to sit down, the body screaming in protest and his injured muscles urging him to stand still. Unconsciousness tried to swallow him back. As tantalizing as that peace was, he couldn’t allow himself to undergo it yet.
Thomas... Olivia... She’s dead... Olivia’s dead… and the boy? What happened to the boy?!
He sat down. His left arm didn’t follow his movements and Asimov saw that he was handcuffed to the bed.
Then the bedroom door opened slowly.
“Thomas?” he spoke the name with his dry voice. The weakness and the wounds were trying to seduce him one more time, calling him back to the dream world. He shook his head, forcing himself to be alert.
The figure approached the bed. It wasn’t Thomas. Far away from that, it was an enormous black man, one meter ninety tall and with the massive structure of a born fighter, clearly just into his sixtieth year, with a thick gray beard. He wore a worn leather jacket and jeans, with a huge revolver dangling from a holster on his belt. He was also holding a bottle of water. The stranger looked at him for a long moment and then shook his head.
“No, my name is Cássio,” he said peacefully, “and you… you’re alive. I knew you would survive. Honestly, my men didn’t expect this. They were sure that you would either die or Make the Turn. That’s why you’re chained, and as if that weren’t enough, you still have the result of your blood
test in route. Now, I am the only reason my men didn’t blow your head on you as soon as they found you.”
He shook the bottle and then flung it at Asimov. Despite his wounds, Asimov grabbed the bottle in the air with ease. Slowly he opened it and took a long sip. When was the last time he drank water? When was the last time he ate? His stomach rumbled with the question. Asimov drank all the water, telling himself to take it easy. When he finished he set the bottle on the bed. The man, Cássio, watched him silently, hands folded in front of him in a formal gesture.
“And why would you do that?” Asimov asked.
“What?”
“Why would you save my life?”
“Ca-vei-ra,” the man replied slowly, letting the word sink. “I’m not exaggerating; your black uniform literally saved you.”
Asimov nodded, meditative, taking the information. “You MP?”
“Army, actually... Retired,” Cássio stopped, and then allowed himself a confession. “My son was a Raio.”
Asimov nodded again. “Raio” — Lightning Bolt — was the nickname that earned by who finished the Course of Tactical Actions — CAT — instead of the classic COEsp, that produced “Caveiras” — Skulls —, the officers. It was a minor course aimed at forming soldiers, lasting 45 days instead of six months.
So, that man’s son had been a BOPE cop, and that was the only reason that Asimov wasn’t dead yet; it was black on white, and it wasn’t something easy to swallow — gratitude was the least Asimov should feel at that moment.
“I should thank your son, then,” he said.
“I would call him if he were alive.”
Listening, Asimov just nodded. To say “I am sorry” would be very superfluous, and that man didn’t seem to be the kind of person who would accept that sort of thing.
“Then, in that case, I thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir...?”
“Call me Asimov.”
“Asimov,” Cássio repeated his name thoughtfully. “Unless your uniform is fake you’re far away from home, son, and — with all due respect — you seems pretty fucked.”
You can’t imagine, Asimov thought, pressing his lips. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Close to five hours. True be told, I am a little surprised you are awake, with the wounds you have…”
Asimov absorbed that, but said nothing, feeling that the man hadn’t finished. “Before you ask, yes, I am what can be said of boss here.” Cássio explained, “I can see on your face that you’re in pain. Nothing I can do about it, unfortunately. You received the medical care we could offer, even if scarce. It was enough to save your life — for now — but painkillers are too precious to be wasted on strangers. I’m sure you’ll understand...”
Asimov rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his foggy mind so he could speak coherently. “You’ve done enough, thank you.”
“You already said thanks,” Cássio cut him off and spoke slowly, “I’m too old to play games, so I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Asimov. I have no reason to trust you and we are — in the absence of better words — facing dark times. I need to ask you some questions, and I would appreciate very much if you answer honestly. I’m not going to torture you anyway. Depending on what you say now, you will be either welcome in my group, expelled or killed here and now. Yes, I understand that it seems a contradiction to kill a man that I just saved, but as I said, these are dark times...”
Asimov nodded and pursed his lips. “I get it.”
“Good.” Cássio picked up a folding metal chair that was near the wall and dragged it noiselessly to Asimov, just a few paces away separating the two men. “Shall we begin?” he asked, sitting down, but Asimov shook his head and raised a finger.
“I have no reason to lie to you. However, I would like to ask a question first. One question, one answer, and then you can ask me whatever you want.”
Cássio grimaced, but then nodded, “Seems fair. What would be your question?”
“I was traveling with a—”
“She didn’t make it,” Cássio spoke once, in a few words. “The girl was already dead when we found you.”
Asimov didn’t let his face show his sorrow. “I know, but that wasn’t my question. There was a boy with us. He disappeared when we are attacked, and I don’t think you found me by just blind luck. He is with you?”
At first, Cássio didn’t reply. Before the man could interrupt, Asimov pressed on. “You are with him, aren’t you? It was how you found me, right? Is he fine? Where is he?” Asimov only realized that he was losing control when he finished speaking.
Cássio stood still, just staring at him for a moment, expressionless, all the gentle features on his face absent. He was analyzing the man in front of him, seeming to ponder whether or not he should tell the truth, if it was something he could use against Asimov, as some kind of leverage. Asimov knew that Cássio was thinking on that because if their positions were changed, he’d probably be thinking the same thing. It angered him, but there wasn’t much he could do but wait for the answer.
“Yeah, we found him. Thomas, right...? Oh, with an ‘H’, he made that very clear to me. Smart boy, obviously American... He is fine. He’s playing outside with the others. You can see him as soon as we’re done.”
Asimov didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his lungs screamed for air. Suddenly, he felt relieved. And even a little surprised, he had to confess. He didn’t know he cared so much about that kid until that moment as if Thomas was like a son to him.
Son…
I had a son...
“Now that I’ve answered your question,” Cássio said, “I have to do a few of my own.”
Asimov just nodded. Cássio asked his questions, and he told him everything.
♦♦♦
To say that Thomas was “playing” was an understatement, not to say it was a lie.
In fact, he was sitting on a not very cozy bench, surrounded by two strangers while one of them collects a blood sample from his arm.
“Done,” said the man, finishing his job.
“Did it hurt?” The woman asked Thomas, in English. Thomas shrugged, saying that it was ok. The woman was tall and slender, beautiful enough that even a tween could recognize this, with a cascade of black hair that highlighted the whiteness of her body. She had a green eye and a blue one, which Thomas found curious, and talked to him all the time, trying to distract him while the crazy man collected the sample.
It was she who saw Thomas running in the rain and fleeing from the motel, where Olivia and Asimov had been attacked. And it was she who persuaded the others to go look for the two of them. Thomas saw them carrying Asimov to their car — the cop didn’t look all right — but there was no sign of Olivia.
Because she’s dead! Dead! And you didn’t do anything! Again!
The accusation and the shame didn’t leave his head, being stronger than any rational justification — he was, after all, a boy! What could he do?! If he hadn’t fled, he’d have died too. One side of him stated vehemently that he had acted correctly, but for every statement of his there was another voice in his head which fervently declared his guilt — he was a boy, but he had a gun! He could have shot, he should have shot! If he hadn’t fled, the Shade wouldn’t have killed Olivia…
That sense of guilt and the due knowledge of his impotence consumed him like fire consuming wood. He felt he’d go crazy.
“Hey,” the woman called, “are you okay? Come on; let’s find something for you to eat...”
But he didn’t want to eat. He wanted Olivia back. He wanted his mother back. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before. How good it would be if someone had the power to remake things like they were in the past! But Thomas also knew things weren’t like that. He knew that real life would just go on, no matter how frightening it was.
Such knowledge, however, didn’t diminish his desire to break these laws — on the contrary, only made him pray with more force, in a perfect paradox. He want
ed something fantastic to happen, the sympathy of fate, a snap of fingers, something to make it all back to normal, even though he knew the past couldn’t be changed — it was written with iron and fire, established to be perpetual, austere, and invariable, and would probably be the only thing left of mankind.
“Asimov,” Thomas said. “Where is he? He is fine?”
“Your father is—
“He’s not my father. He is my friend.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully. “Your friend is okay; Cássio went to see if he woke up. Then you can see it, I promise.”
Thomas looked at the man, who was bending over a microscope, staring at his blood and muttering incoherent words. He seemed fascinated by what he was looking at, and even a little cracked.
“What he is doing?”
The woman looked at her partner. “Oh, he’s taking a look at your blood.”
“I know that,” Thomas snorted, “but why?”
“It’s the... procedure.”
“You think I might be infected, don’t you?”
The woman blinked, caught off guard. The smile on her face softened a little but didn’t fade away. “You’re clever, young man.”
Thomas shrugged, “Just enough. If I was infected, I would have attacked you.”
“I know,” the woman agreed, “but bureaucracy is bureaucracy.”
“Look, I may not know English, but I know when people are talking about me, ok?” The man called in Portuguese, out of nowhere. He didn’t even look up from the microscope. “Boy, if you want to ask me something, you can talk. Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.”
“Victor, I hate it when you make this joke,” the woman said.
The doctor, Victor, chuckled and looked up from the microscope. He looked about thirty-odd years old, with curly hair and a face of an honest — and eccentric, very eccentric — person. Ignoring the woman from top to bottom, he looked at Thomas and bowed, making an exaggerated and awkward move. Thomas suppressed a chuckle.
The War Within #1: Victims Page 12
