by Hanks, Greg
I shook my head. “Tara. We would have died—”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I sighed. It was like walking on eggshells. More like razors. It was only a month ago I had been playing the skeptic. Wasn’t Tara the one saying we didn’t have anywhere else to go? I thought we had come to terms with that. Perhaps it was the nerves talking. I worked up the courage to finally say something, reaching a point of no return.
“Tara,” I said, making sure she looked at me, “what happened to us?”
Her eyes twitched all over my face before she turned to the rubble in between her legs.
“I don’t know.”
I let her stew. I wanted a complete answer, and I knew it would take some prodding to open her vault.
“I don’t want to hear that Genesis changed anything. I don’t believe that. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe that.”
She kept her head low. “You’re right, Mark. I can’t keep putting this off.”
I reached over to bring her chin toward me, and said, “If anything, we should have become closer down there. We could have supported each other. We could have trained knowing we had each other’s back.”
Her eyes were damp again. She looked guilty and forlorn. From all of her emotions, I figured she was just scared to admit her loss of feeling for me. I dreaded the truth, but I’d rather have the truth than wait for nothing to happen.
“How could we?” she retaliated. “How could I love you knowing both of us would most likely die? What happens if just one of us dies and leaves the other? I didn’t want—I guess I thought I was protecting us. No . . . I was protecting myself.”
All of the garbage thoughts fell off of my mind like meat being pushed off a kabob. There was only one sentiment I collected from her statement.
She loved me.
I couldn’t help but smile. This of course brought a look of frustration and confusion upon her face.
“What?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t care, Tara.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t care! I don’t care if we die. We went through five years of hell and a month of unrealistic circumstances, for what? Why can’t we have a fraction of a good life? Why can’t we get out of this swamp we call ‘our life’ and enjoy a tiny bit of happiness? Do you really want to die knowing you could have loved? Or could have felt joy again? Or could have found a sense of some peace?”
And I really didn’t care. Despite the agony of watching our relationship crumble within the Underbed, I wasn’t going to hold a grudge. I wasn’t going to blame her. We could be dead in a few days, who knows? I wanted to make the best with the time I still had left.
She couldn’t find words. Her mouth hung slightly open. Her eyes dropped and she started to realize a dark truth. She had let the only good thing in her life fall away.
“I—I don’t know what else to say. I’ve really messed up. And now I’m scared to go on this mission knowing . . . God, I’m so sorry—”
She couldn’t finish; my lips were planted firmly upon hers. Eventually, I felt her hand grab my neck as she gave in.
There wasn’t going to be a grand, dramatic closing to the conversation. No cheesy music began to play. There were no fireworks or serendipitous feelings. There were only two renegades, stripped of pride, youth, and innocence.
But no one said there couldn’t be any kissing.
After a long embrace, Tara moved back.
“Mark,” she said, “I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
She gave me a long stare, her eyelashes batting away tears. “You can never put my life above the others’.”
About to scrunch my brow, I refrained and realized how serious she was.
“I promise,” I said.
Satisfied, she rested her head on my shoulder and we watched the last few breaths of the sun catch the Hudson’s choppy breaks. However, I wasn’t satisfied. There had been something eating away at my soul ever since I walked out of my apartment. Something I had left undone.
“As long as we’re making promises,” I said, “I need you to promise me something.”
Her head leaned back, still locked on to the breathtaking scene.
“I need you to find someone for me. If I don’t make it.”
That got her attention.
Her body spun around. “Who?”
“Her name’s Savannah.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed and she said, “I don’t understand.”
“She’s my sister.”
Tara didn’t have a response. She looked down, trying to piece things together.
“I thought your family passed away?”
I shook my head and clarified the lie, “Not all of them.”
“Well—wait where is she? Why weren’t you with her?”
I sighed. I hadn’t told this to anyone before. Then again, there hadn’t been anyone to tell.
“I pushed her away,” I said. A blender ripped apart my chest. Hearing myself say those words hurt me more than I was prepared for. “We used to live together in our parents’ house—in Queens. But I—I couldn’t be around her anymore. I left and never went back.”
“Was this before Edge?”
“No. Edge was the reason I left.”
Tara looked taken aback. “Why would you leave—”
“Because, Tara,” I interrupted, “she’s a Seraph.”
Tara registered the fact that my sister was immune to Edge. Completely free from all of the horrifying effects of the virus. Tara started to understand why I would leave my own flesh and blood during such a horrible time.
“Let me guess,” she started, “she tried to help you.”
“I just couldn’t be around her anymore. Knowing she could walk around without the slightest fear or concern. I hated her. I wanted to see her suffer. It makes me sick to think about it now.”
She put a hand on my arm and gave me a comforting smile. “I understand. And I’m sure she doesn’t blame you.”
“Then you’ll find her?”
She blinked a few times and said, “That’s only if—”
“I know,” I said, “but if something happens, I want you to find her. I want you to tell her how sorry I am.”
She gave me a somber look. She didn’t want to agree to anything that had to do with my death. But she nodded and said, “Of course I promise.”
The day had finished and night was collecting its authority. Tara and I sat there for another hour, saying nothing. We both recognized that this might be our last night together. I tried to relax and enjoy the evening calm before Tara had to infiltrate GenoTec’s Manhattan Branch.
68
Thirst.
That was the only way to describe my desire for Slate’s blood on my hands. I held Gear’s rifle close to my chest. My legs burned from overexertion. My head pleaded for rest. My eyes stung. Pieces of my armor hung by synthetic fibers. I was cut, bludgeoned, and internally wounded. All the forces of the world seemed to be gravitating upon this one moment.
The elevator rose, jostling every few seconds. The more elevation I gained the cooler and more exposed it became. The elevator had no roof, and above me, dark storm clouds drifted by. Anything could happen in a matter of seconds. Slate had the complete advantage. Once I popped up through the shaft, he could easily be waiting to pick me off. Pluck me away. Like some annoying weed.
I had to be fast. Or I would be dead.
But death seemed to be on my side lately. I didn’t quite understand why I was alive. Maybe God did exist and I had been chosen to do this. Though I don’t know how many times a man can curse God throughout his life and still be in good standing with Him. Edge had turned most of us into hardcore atheists.
But somehow, I could feel a purpose coursing through me. Instead of corrupting, viscous toxins running amok inside my veins, there were pulsating orbs of courage, duty, and most of all, warmongering. I was still afraid, most definitely, but this kind o
f fear seemed to promote my muscles, straighten my focus, and calm the tennis match going on inside my head.
And then, in one abrupt halt, I had ascended.
The elevator brought me to the roof of Axxiol’s Rectory. Similar to each Vestibule—now nearly thirty feet below me—the surface was covered by fenced off electrical boxes and solar panels. Massive blue crates were placed in two rows in front of me. Through the middle gap, almost twenty yards away, there was a raised helipad. And it was currently occupied.
The sharp and sleek metal bird had already begun its rotors. They spun ferociously against the oncoming gales. The helicopter’s side door was wide open, with a few brown canvas duffle bags perched on the inside ledge. Everything was in place.
Except for Slate.
I was already behind a blue crate, wondering what my next move would be. I tried so hard to remember the things Bollis, Vexin, and Dodge had taught me. This was Slate, though. And as much as I felt I knew how to handle combat now, Slate could easily dominate me. I wasn’t going to try to lie to myself.
There had to be some way to work against him.
I thought of what supplies I had. Gear’s rifle and one of his sticky grenades, my combat knife, and a few clips for my pistol. If I could get Slate close enough, the rifle could do the rest. I could use the grenade to flush him out, then strike. The idea seemed foolproof, but my ideas usually tended to go awry.
Where are you Slate?
I checked both sides of the crate multiple times. There hadn’t been one peep from another human soul for at least five minutes. At last, I cleared the left side and deemed it suitable to break cover. I prowled the small space between the left row of crates and the roof’s low-height retaining bars.
I trained my ears to find every sound possible, though the helicopter didn’t make it easy. The slightest tick. The smallest creak. The frailest bend. For the next five minutes, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I crossed the halfway mark. I was closing in on the helipad. My breaths were picking up speed. Something was wrong.
Then the rain came.
The grim clouds unleashed their force upon the small offshore facility. The Rectory received the worst of it. The combination of faraway sunlight and depressing cloud coverage seemed odd and slightly mystifying. Everything was soaked. The metal flooring reflected the pellets of rain like gunfire.
A metal clang came from far across the roof. It must’ve been one of the crates. I stepped a few feet to my right, getting a better view of the middle gap.
Another one! I jerked to the left, finding nothing but darkened steel doused in water. This time I took four controlled steps toward the helipad and cleared the last row of crates. I could see across the gap, to the other end of the roof. The helicopter still whirred consistently, undeterred. I made a decision to move to the other side. I was done playing games.
As I crossed the first crate, something clicked above me.
The full force of Slate’s trunk-like body smashed into me. The only thing I could see was the image of his mask before it clipped my head. We rolled into the wall of the helipad, and Slate made sure his weight pinched me against the barrier. The air left my lungs and I laid there gasping and coughing, too weak to retaliate. Slate rose and snatched me by the collar. I tried ripping his hands away, but his strength was inhuman.
My body was hurled against the blue crate. The rib that had broken a month ago snapped again, this time much worse. Each breath felt like a small shark was taking a bite of my lower back. When I could open my eyes, all I saw was Slate’s silhouette, outlined by the intense deluge.
“You lose, Mark.” He raised a fist.
The blow knocked my eyes out of their sockets. Or so it felt. How could it be so easy? Was I this weak? Had we done everything just for me to fail?
When he went for another punch, I rolled a millisecond before his fist hit the steel. When I felt my back against the ground, I rocketed my legs into his stomach, knocking him backwards. I scrambled to my feet and whipped out my pistol.
But he was gone.
I rounded the corner of the crate, finding no trace. With my weapon still raised, I retrieved my rifle and everything went back to square one.
I wasn’t going to do this again.
I flung Gear’s sticky bomb in between the first two crates and watched the destruction reign supreme. The second storage container tilted and fell on its side. I didn’t hesitate. I hopped the small helipad platform and flanked the inside gap.
There! Slate’s foot disappeared behind another crate in the next row. I hastily pulled the trigger.
Gear’s rifle knocked me off balance. I wasn’t prepared for the shockwave. The magnitude of each round left me out of breath. Still, I flanked the second row, trying to keep up with the madman. He held his position behind the third crate. I double-checked each side of the row, awaiting his next move. That bomb was my only distraction. I hoped to God he didn’t have any.
“It’s over, Slate!” I shouted through the rain. “Where do you think you can go after this?”
There wasn’t any reply. A stalemate ensued. Nothing moved for at least five or ten minutes. I couldn’t tell. Time didn’t exist up here. It was like Slate and I were confined inside a snow globe. And only one of us was going to leave alive.
Attracted to the sound of the rotors, I skipped backwards and approached the helicopter. I didn’t know how to fly the thing, but maybe I could lure him out with it. I rounded the cockpit and jumped inside. The controls gave me a headache. Nothing was labeled. I tried to find anything that looked like a weapon control. Remembering the destructive gatling guns of the other helicopter, I would be a fool for not using them now.
Four bullets hit the windshield, turning the clear pane into a spider web. Through the displaced glass, I saw him. Shoulders and biceps bulging. Neck tattoo glistening in the offset sunlight. There was no fear in that man’s eyes.
I was in a terrible position. My only option was to figure out how the hell these gatling guns worked. Did this helicopter even have them? I couldn’t remember seeing them, come to think of it. Slate continued his march toward the bird, stepping up the two-stair rise. Three more bullets collided with the windshield, but it held strong.
I was a frantic mess. I still had my rifle, though. Maybe I could use the door as cover and . . . there was no more time to think.
I flung the door open and stuck the barrel of Gear’s rifle out of the cockpit. I fired awkwardly, trying to steady the weapon while looking through the cracked glass. Slate simply moved to my right, evading my barrage by a long shot. Two more blasts from his handgun finally cracked the glass and the shards fell all over my lap.
Adrenaline split an atom within me and I reacted fast. I leapt backwards out of the cockpit and aimed my rifle at Slate through the metal barrier. We were only feet away now. It was his rage against mine. I wasn’t going to let him do this. I couldn’t bear to think he would get away with everything he had done to me. I whipped the second sliding door and opened fire.
No one was there to receive my bullets and I had forgotten something extremely important—the number of rounds Gear had left within his rifle.
My weapon clicked in exhaustion. I was out. Clean out. I tossed the heavy weapon aside and withdrew my pistol. Slate appeared on the other side and I took the shot. The tip of my gun exploded. My hand was on fire. I lay on my back, looking up at the bird’s rotors. What the hell just happened? I turned my head, still dazed. My pistol lay a few inches from me, blackened and blown open. I racked my brain, trying to figure out why it would have backfired.
Then I remembered the first struggle. Slate must have damaged it when we collided. A full on metal-concrete sandwich. When I figured out the small mystery, I saw Slate’s boots pace around the front of the helicopter. He tossed his pistol to the side, with no more ammunition to spare. He waited in the center of the enormous “H”.
For me.
I managed to pick myself up. I thought my hand was bleeding, but I
couldn’t feel anything. All of my brain’s processing power was focused on Slate. I never wanted it to come to this, but I wasn’t going to give up until the last ounce of blood was sucked out of my body.
I dragged myself around the helicopter and stood across from him. Something came through the air, like a crackling voice. As it grew louder, I recognized it as Axxiol’s security alert. The toxins were being released.
Oh no. It couldn’t have been thirty minutes yet. I hoped to God that Tara and Dodge made it out safely.
Slate laughed. His cackle was garbled and pitchy. “Here we are, Mark!” He spread his arms. “This is the end of your life! Smell it. Taste it. Engrain it upon your eyes.”
“We’re both gonna die!” I yelled. “You’ve killed yourself!”
“I’ve always been prepared for death, Mark! Have you?”
I hated him. I despised every inch of his being.
“I didn’t think you’d give up your empire so easily!” I spat.
He paced right, then left. “That’s why they call it an empire, Mark! It lives on! My utopia will carry on through my blood. Don’t presume to teach me a lesson about planning!”
The rain pressed on. Lightning sparked the atmosphere above. Slate and I stared into each other’s eyes. Maybe if I could just get him talking long enough for the toxins to reach us. Maybe then . . .
“Join me!” he said, stepping forward. “As we become immortal!”
Then he rushed me. The tackle felt like a two-ton boulder. We fell to the ground and rolled away from each other. Slate’s armored chest plate had split my other shoulder-piece wide open. The entire left arm of my Oversuit disconnected and broke apart into pieces.
We were both back up, locked in a wrestling grapple. Our heads pressed against each other, our hands clasped together. We slipped on the wet floor and fell into each other. Slate wrapped his incredible bicep around my neck and choked me. I landed a sharp elbow to his groin and was released. I redoubled my efforts and brought the same elbow up to his face, whipping back at his mask. His megaphone groan sliced the tumultuous air.
