He turned away. “We need to get to my car, Sheila.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she shouted. “You really are a murderer, aren’t you? You knew this day was coming, and yet instead of emptying the Bunker you let everyone start a new shift instead, and—”
“They were going to die anyway!” he screamed. “Don’t you get it? This is bigger than me. All of them are going to die. Better they go now, and quickly, than to suffer what’s ahead.”
His eyes moved to the sky as a sound like a train roared overhead. She looked up as well, saw the two cylindrical shapes pass by, then plunge straight down toward the Jamison & Associates building.
When she brought her gaze back to him, the barrel of the gun pointed at her chest.
She couldn’t even feel shock anymore. “Why me?” she whispered. “Of all the people you know, of all the people who work for you… why did you choose to put so much effort into saving me?” And he had. If she’d been meant to die, he could have done nothing. She’d die anyway. But he’d summoned her here to ensure she was under his direct control and protection.
“You’re part of the Plan, Sheila,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you. And you wouldn’t go to so much trouble to save me just to shoot me now.”
She turned and ran back toward the Bunker.
The gunshot rang out seconds later.
—————
DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT
—————
…though marriage was not a legal construct, the recitation of vows relating to fidelity and intended permanence of a relationship were a societal norm pre-dating efforts in procreation… though rare, public renunciation of such vows did occur in extreme cases…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 160
DEIRDRE WRAPPED HER SORE ARMS around herself as she rode the private elevator car down to the garage. She was a mess, physically and emotionally, and was happy she’d not run into another living soul for a while.
She’d meant only to take the gun from Audrey and have the woman unlock the elevator system. At worst, she’d hoped any gunshot would stun Audrey and provide her with the advantage she needed to get the gun and force the receptionist to unlock the cars.
Her worst-case scenario had been that the gun would go off and her father and Roddy would come to investigate. It would cause a lot of awkward questions.
Her worst-case scenario hadn’t been the worst case, though. She’d overpowered Audrey with her burst of adrenaline, but hadn’t been able to extract the gun from the woman’s fingers, all the while pushing the gun away from herself in a defensive manner. And then Audrey had stumbled at just the wrong moment. The noise had deafened her even with the modest silencer. The pain in her ears was nothing to the pain she felt when she saw the massive hole open in Audrey’s chest and the blood pouring out.
She’d gotten the body behind the desk, where she’d found the button to activate the elevator car. Towels behind Audrey’s desk let her mop up some of the blood. She didn’t need to get much up, just enough to make it less than obvious that a woman had died from a gunshot wound. It would buy her enough time to get out of the Diasteel compound.
She’d gotten some of the blood and gore off her clothing, but realized quickly that it wasn’t the most critical thing she needed to do in her limited time. She needed to get out of here. She’d dropped the towel near Audrey and sprinted to the elevator car and set a course for the parking garage, using a combination of buttons only she and her father knew. Even Roddy thought this car ran only between this floor and the thirty-eighth.
She pushed the complex of emotions deep inside her. She’d have time to grieve over everything later. If she lived, of course.
She hopped into her ground car and left the compound, driving at a high rate of speed along the spur road back to the main cityplex, then through the maze of streets to her apartment. She looked over her shoulder, expecting at any minute to see a parade of cars following her, sent after her by Oswald or Roddy or both to collect her for questioning in Audrey’s murder.
She shivered as she parked the car and ran into the building.
There were two people in line waiting for the elevator. They took a look at her clothing and their eyes widened.
“Art class,” Deirdre offered. “I lost my battle with the paint.” She smiled.
They turned and walked away.
She rode the elevator up and sprinted down the hall to her apartment, hoping Stephen would still be here. She entered and called out for him, racing room to room. She need him here, where she could set him up in the suit he’d unknowingly built for himself, the suit she’d known he’d need to survive the coming apocalypse due to start in hours, perhaps minutes. Only in that suit would he be safe from the Ravagers. She’d stored her own suit here weeks ago to provide an excuse to leave Diasteel. She’d send him here, then return to the apartment, get them both suited up, and then return to Diasteel with him and demand Oswald permit Stephen’s departure.
What Oswald didn’t know was that she’d destroyed his Diasteel suit. That suit just happened to be the same size as the suit Stephen would arrive wearing. Oswald wouldn’t have time to strip the suit from Stephen before they’d need to depart.
She’d win.
There were two problems now, though. Roddy had figured out the truth about her and Stephen, and as the pilot, he might be able to leave without her. Roddy still thought this was a business trip, and he’d be leaving her behind to avoid the impending and uncomfortable discussions. He’d be willing to risk loss of employment.
Her only hope was that Oswald would confirm her presence on board before they left. This trip wasn’t a business trip. It was an evacuation.
The second problem was that she’d not yet found Stephen.
She felt a wave of panic. If he’d left and gone home, they were both doomed.
Her eye fell upon the empty wall. She moved to it, placed her hands on the precise spots, and pushed.
The wall slid back, revealing a closet with two suits.
Stephen leaped out from behind the one he’d brought with him, still dressed in the delivery uniform. “Surprise!”
While she’d normally find such antics amusing, she had no time for play now. “Put the suit on, Stephen.” She moved to her own and began to undo the fasteners that would eventually seal the suit around her. “Seriously, you need to put it on.”
“You’re kidding. Why?”
“Just trust me, okay?” She took off her jacket and undid the buttons on her bloodied blouse.
Stephen’s eyes widened. “What the hell happened?”
“Long story. No time to explain. Get in the suit.” She finished stripping down to her underwear and hauled the suit to her bed.
He eyed her nearly nude body with deep hunger. “How about I put the suit on later?”
“Dammit, Stephen, this is serious!” she shouted. “Put the damn suit on now! It’s a matter of life and death, and we’re running out of time!”
He folded his arms. “You have got to be kidding me.” He pointed. “I know that thing is impervious to everything, but what makes you think my risk of dying without it is suddenly greater than it was a few hours ago?”
“Just do it, please,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you. I can’t live without you, Stephen. And if you don’t put that suit on now, my life won’t be worth living either.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off when her phone began chirping. A text message. From Roddy.
She rummaged through her discarded clothes, found her phone, and opened the text message.
So his name is Stephen, is it? Enjoy your time with him while I’m gone. We’ll discuss making that arrangement permanent when I return. Roddy.
She dropped the phone and ran to the massive bedroom window, where she could see the massive Diasteel tower in the distance. Her trained eyes saw the extra puffs of smoke in the per
manent cloud bank around the tower, and she knew the awful truth.
Roddy had tricked Oswald into letting them leave without her.
She didn’t wonder how Roddy had overheard her conversation at this point. Their conversation in her father’s office made clear he’d worked out the basics of her infidelity, if not the specifics. He’d want proof before approaching her, though. And that meant he’d bugged the room and had heard her profess her disinterest in living without Stephen.
She heard a loud noise outside, like a train rumbling through the sky. She searched frantically, watching as the missiles slammed into a building on the spur road.
Oswald and Roddy had left.
The missiles used to accelerate the activated Ravagers had struck.
And she was sitting without her Diasteel suit in her apartment forty stories off the ground.
She collapsed on the bed and began to sob uncontrollably.
She was going to die. And worse, she knew she deserved it.
After all, the entire plan had been her idea from the start.
—————
WESLEY CARDINAL
—————
…of the many human traits, it is the survival instinct that most ensured that our species still populates the planet today…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 1
WESLEY’S MIND KICKED INTO HIGH GEAR. With his life on the line, it had no other choice. He felt the adrenaline surge through him and he scanned the room with a detached calm. His eyes fell upon the tile grip tool.
Of course.
He seized the tool from the nearby wall and sprinted toward the door, sliding on his knees down the ramp from the main portion of the room to the entry. As he stopped, he slammed the tool down upon the tile nearest the door. The suction cups adhered to the tile and Wesley hoisted the floor panel up and tossed it behind him. He felt on his belt. The guards had left the miniature flashlight behind. Wesley pulled it free, flipped it on, and jumped into the open spot he’d created in the metal grid.
He landed and coughed as the disturbed dust invaded his nostrils. Straining his eyes through the forming tears, he shined the light forward, hoping he’d be wrong. But the exterior walls of the room went clear down the main floor. He’d not be able to crawl under the wall to safety. He was still locked in.
Locked?
He flashed the beam to the wires running up to the door. It might not work, but it wasn’t as if he had much choice at this point. He remembered the instructions he’d gotten for the facility: black wires carried electrical power, other colors carried information and data. He reached inside his boot and extracted the simple switchblade knife, gritted his teeth, and sawed through the black wire.
He could hear the silence as the power ceased flowing to the door and a tumbling sound. He didn’t know what the latter was, but he knew whatever locking mechanism was in use it would have no electrical energy left. He folded the blade, shoved it back inside his boot, stood in the opening, and propelled himself out of the hole. He grabbed the tile grip tool and slid the loose tile back into the grid, released the tool, and threw it aside.
No more use for it.
Sort of like him, from the Voice’s perspective.
“If I ever find you, Voice,” he vowed, “I will kill you in the most painful way I can imagine, preferably with a tile gripper.”
He sprang to the door and pushed before realizing the door slid sideways, into the wall. Which way, though? He searched his memory, then put both hands on the door and pushed to the left. The door didn’t move. Wesley felt a flash of inspiration. He grabbed the tile gripper and slammed it into the metal door on the right side, and then pulled with all his might to the left, hoping the door rested on rollers of some type.
It moved.
Inch by inch, he pulled with every bit of strength he possessed, muscles screaming in pain, his body doused in sweat. He finally got the door open a foot and tested it, squishing himself in even the most uncomfortable of bodily areas… and then he was out.
He fell to the ground in relief.
The klaxon blared overhead and he wrapped his arms around his head, this time covering his ears, until his body acclimated to the noise. He lowered his hands, realizing what it meant. The Ravagers had caused sufficient damage to trigger sensors and an automatic sounding of the alarm.
He could hear the thundering steps as people exited the real data center and swarmed toward the lobby. At orientation, they made clear that fire alarms and the like were built in such a way that they couldn’t be pulled as a prank or by accident, and thus any sounding of an alarm was a definite and immediate danger and required an orderly exit from the facility. He could see on the faces of those nearby that there would be little calm or order in the calm, orderly exit from the Bunker.
He’d never get out through the main door. It was a bottleneck. He wondered what fool had built the entry door to allow only single individuals in or out at a time, but decided it didn’t matter at this point. Even if it was the General…
He remembered. The secret stairwell at the end of the officers’ hallway. He’d be going against foot traffic, hopefully improving his chances of getting there in time. But as they neared the lobby and he saw the mass of humanity pushing and shoving and screaming, he knew that even travel in the “wrong” direction would be troublesome.
“Hey, what are you doing out?” someone shouted. “I thought you were in the brig?”
“Yeah, I saw it! You got tossed in for attacking Sheila Clarke!”
“They should have left you in there!”
“The General ordered me released to his office to offer an apology to Sheila Clarke.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “What I did was wrong, and foolish, and it shouldn’t have happened. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading that way…”
“Not my problem,” the woman nearest him retorted. “If I move, I’ll lose my place in line.”
“Didn’t you notice, Cardinal? The evac is sounding. We’re all worried about our lives here, not your dumb ass apologies.”
“Do you really think it’s wise to antagonize someone known for attacking innocent coworkers?” Wesley asked. He let his eyes go wild, and he could see the fear in their eyes. But they didn’t move.
In desperation, he tried the first thing that came to mind. “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed at the nearest woman. He dove at her.
But she wasn’t there. She and her coworkers had backed away, suddenly more concerned about Wesley’s attack than whatever had triggered the evacuation. He bounced into the wall and rolled off it into the open part of the lobby, away from the crowds.
“Thanks!” he said. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the General.”
He sprinted toward the hallway at the opposite side of the lobby, dodging around the outside of the massed crowd as necessary. He looked at the General’s office and punched in the code, shoving the door open and bursting into the room. He ripped the drawer open and pushed the false bottom away.
No badge.
Jamison had already taken it, of course. That’s how they’d gotten into that room by the tank. He roared in frustration before existing Jamison’s office and racing down the hallway. Perhaps the badge wasn’t necessary. He put his hands on the spots from memory and pushed.
The hidden door cracked open.
He choked. “Seriously? It worked?”
There was no time to marvel at the intricacies of badges and manual entry to hidden staircases. He pushed the door open and emerged onto the metal landing, glancing down.
He sucked in a breath.
The Ravagers were through the thick walls of the underground area and had fallen upon the base of the stairwell.
He heard a door slam in the distance and looked up. Jamison and Clarke must have exited above.
The stairwell shook and he lost his balance.
He scrabbled his fingers around, gripping the edge of the landing as the surface dropped to vertical, untet
hered as the Ravagers shredded the base that held the entire lower half of the structure in place. He swung his other arm up and then gripped the first stair up toward the exit, hauling himself with adrenaline-aided ease to the step. He cried out in pain at the strain in his arms as he sprinted up the stairs, toward the exit nearly five stories up. He ran without pause, ignoring the growing stitch in his side and his desperate need to stop and breathe deeply. He didn’t dare look back.
He knew they were working their way up the stairwell. There was no more powerful motivator than the risk of imminent death.
He reached the last five steps when the stairwell lurched once more, and he seized the railing with his left hand before the stairs dropped from beneath him, hanging straight down. He knew it meant the Ravagers were closing in.
He caught the back of the nearest step with his right hand and swung his left over, trying to ignore the growing rumbling sound heading toward him. He pulled his feet toward him and stood on the back of a lower step before bringing his left hand over. He climbed the rest of the way to the final landing by the exit door, treating the stairwell as a ladder. He glanced down into the dark abyss climbing toward him as he pushed the door open to bright sunlight.
The sound reached him immediately, like a train rumbling overhead. He looked up, shielding his eyes with his hand, trying to see what caused the sound above him.
He saw the two cylinders as they began their descent toward the soon-to-be-former home of Jamison & Associates and realized he had only one thing to do.
He ran from the building as fast as he could, spurred on by the need to survive the pending cataclysm unfolding behind him.
The missiles struck the building thirty seconds later, burrowing through the upper levels of the building and parking floors, shearing through wood and tile and human flesh alike, not caring which they destroyed.
Ten seconds later, the warheads detonated.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 14
