Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  I set my teeth and aim at the brick curve where the hand disappeared. The angle sucks, but I spang a few rounds off the brick because hey, it doesn't hurt to try.

  I'm never going to think that again. Just as I hold off firing to inspect my work, a bang sounds. My body jerks, suddenly filled with a deep, numbing tunnel that shoots cold through my left shoulder. My feet falter.

  Emergency exit alarm. He circled around.

  The armored figure—what Infinity calls an F-prot—he's flanked by two cops and coming through the main doors, letting another round fly. A supersonic bee whizzes by my ear. Aiming for the head—the sure way to kill a vipe.

  That's when they hit the marbles.

  The F-prot in the front skids in a hamstring-tearing stretch, nearly taking down the cop behind him. I'm stupid but not so dumb I leave a sector entirely unguarded. I'm already giving back plenty, the Haribon making a deafening series of rips in the air. I'm fast and cool, sighting in on the faces of the cops, yanking the trigger and moving on to the next. When the helmeted head jerks back, and the F-prot's feet go out from under him for a second time, I duck back down.

  Holy hell. I got them.

  There could be more. There can always be more. I take a glance over the lip of the desk and see the F-prot rolling to his knees, clambering. I aim and fire at the body, but the gun refuses to respond. I look at it—not jammed, just out of ammo. I fire with the SIG, but I can't tell if I hit.

  I drop both guns on the security desk and duck down, grabbing the string of firecrackers. They have one function—to be a decoy for the ammo I don't have. I hurl it over at the pools of burning gas, and in seconds, it sounds like the 101st Airborne have shown up to party. Who wants to be out in the open when that kind of firepower is roaring? Happy New Year, fuckers.

  I now have time to fumble for the lighter and bottle of gas. If bullets can't bring down the F-prot, fire can. The fuse lights cleanly, and I stand up just enough to throw.

  I shouldn't have. The F-prot is limping, sure, but he's firing, and I feel my vest take two solid punches to the torso. The bottle falls from my hand, and I see the armored man get past the door in retreat, gun down. Something is very wrong. The vest hasn't stopped the bullets. My shoulder blade is all pain, all the time. I'm in worse trouble than I feel. They can keep firing on me from two sides now.

  "Infinity?" I say, touching a finger to my ear, but the ear bud fell out. I see it on the floor. Next to it is the burning wick of the Molotov, chewing its way up and inside, ready to ignite full-tilt. My right hand's full of gun, so I nab it with the left and heave it over the desk. Getting an enemy with it is too much to hope for, but at least it isn't going to explode on me.

  Rounds tear at the desk, and I hear glass shatter. A wave of heat washes over the edge. Incredibly, the security desk holds, though I'm sure the wood paneling on its outside is all splinters and shreds. My body is burning as if wasps stung me, the pain increasing with the swelling. But when the bullets stop, I'm somehow still alive and able to move.

  Did they hit my heart? No time to reflect. I can't feel my left hand now— maybe my shoulder or arm got hit again. I grope for the SIG and decide not to get up over the top of the desk—I've been there before, and they'll be waiting to put one in my skull. Instead, I roll around and pop out near the floor, putting the sights on the two officers stacked up around the brick corner. I fire at the lowest one first and then focus only on trying to put a round in the second, pop-pop-pop, like whacking moles at a carnival.

  I hide again. I have to cover the door, but I'm not sure I can stand. My chest burns to keep my neck and head up.

  Two more. Two more, and I can heal this shit. Lying down, I don't feel so faint. The pain is inconsistent and optional. My heart is still pumping, my lungs still heaving. If they don't hit a load-bearing vertebra, I might be able to take them—

  The SIG is out of ammo. Its slide is stuck back.

  On the desk. My other hand's useless, but I can clamber for the guards' magazines. I stashed them in what-used-to-be-easy-reach minutes ago. I sit up closer to the interior of the desk just as the guards blind-fire. I see a lot of blood on the floor, but it's not like it's spraying out of me, and really, it could be anyone's. I wedge the magazine between my feet, eject the old one and slam the gun home. With a flick, I rack a round into the chamber.

  I hear running feet among all the bangs. A shape blocks some of the lights, and I fire at it on instinct. The barrage at the desk was covering fire, and if I can't get out of this—

  My vision swims, and all I hear is shooting. My hand falls away—the firing isn't me. My neck hurts as I force it back into position, trying to resist the invulnerable giant looming over me. The F-prot's gun thunders again and again. I'm under the desk, tucked in securely and seeing everything through some kind of golden filter, dark around the edges as if I'm being dragged through a tunnel. I try to get my gun hand to obey, but it's empty. I'm touching my head instead. The hand is wet, and where my fingers touch isn't smooth anymore. As the F-prot pushes me down with his foot, I don't feel angry at him. I'll rest here a while, and then I'll move on.

  Two cops come up behind the armored F-prot, looking me over. "The rest should be easier," says the helmeted figure. "Find them. And get some medical personnel with crashcarts."

  "Is this one dead?" says one of the cops.

  "You can answer that," says the F-prot, and the cop aims. He looks as if he's wanted to do this his whole life, and now somebody told him he could.

  There's a crack from the end of the world, a light and—

  63 - MORGAN

  I rest my hands on the elevator's walls, inhaling as much as I can. My head is clearing for the first time in months, and the canned air of the elevator is a gift to my nose. Jess holds her hand under my jaw, and I can feel my balance improving. My nausea leaves.

  "Don't try to walk," says Jessica.

  "I just need a minute."

  "No, I mean, appear as my patient."

  I obediently get back on the gurney. She releases the door-close button, and we are hit by a wave of heat and fumes and sprinkling water. Mercifully, it's not all fire and we still have oxygen. Jess closes it again, and all that remains is excess water on the floor.

  A metallic click from behind unsettles me. Deborah has Infinity's black pistol in her hands. I haven't really noticed that it might go off until now.

  "Do you know how to use that thing?" I ask.

  "Fini showed me once, but I'm not good or anything."

  "Put it away," Jessica says. "We've got to be camouflaged."

  The weapon disappears into Deborah's jacket, along with her mask and headset. "Are we sure we want to go out—"

  Loud bangs make us all freeze, and at first, I think she's shot herself putting the pistol away. But the noise is from down the hall—a firefight.

  "What's that?"

  "Suicide by cop, I think," Deborah says, looking as if she's dreaded this before.

  "Okay, not this floor," Jessica orders, stabbing at buttons. "And not where we came from 'cause they'll be headed for their wounded there." The doors work, and the cable lowers us down two. "We'll cut across this level and find another way up."

  They wheel me out of the elevator. And just like that, a voice makes us freeze.

  "Central, I've got three, B2 elevator."

  I turn, and my vision swims. Even so, I pick out the bulky cop behind us. He has a hand on his gun, body language authoritative but not hostile. I want to cling to him—he isn't private security. Maybe he's been kept in the dark by BRHI and is sworn to protect anyone, even vipes?

  "Excuse me, sir, madam, you can't leave," says the cop. "Are you a patient here?"

  I feel a cold fist clench in my gut. I want to yell the truth. I'm a prisoner, not a damn patient. But Jessica jumps in.

  "Yes, I'm taking care of him. We just saw a crazy woman with a gun on B1."

  "Well, I apologize, but this floor isn't safe either. The best thing you can do is to c
ome with me, and I can lock you in a room. Our backup will be here in a few minutes."

  "Backup?" It's Deborah, who sounds more concerned than she should be. I have a bad feeling she just gave the game away.

  "We're just trying to exit the building in an orderly fashion," Jessica tries. "Isn't there like a side exit or something we could—"

  "Ma'am, this hallway is not safe right now. Walk in front of me, please."

  "We're not doing that. We're in fear for our goddamn lives," Jessica tries to step past him. The cop catches her sleeve, and then everything happens very fast.

  Jessica tries to push the cop off her, but his hand jerks on her coat, and they spin a little. Immediately, the cop's eyes go wide—he's seen the stimweb.

  Jessica shoves, and if the cop didn't know she was a vipe before, he knows it now. He's hurled back at least three meters, losing his footing as he lands and ends up on his rump as he collides with the wall. Deborah goes for her gun just as the cop does and points it.

  "Don't move," she yells, "This is—" That's all she gets out before the cop shoots Jess.

  He doesn't even see Deborah. The cop fires again and again, all adrenaline and ammunition. Jessica stumbles backward, each bullet hole taking away her balance, making her sway like a marionette held in palsied hands. I stare as Jess stumbles to her knees, expecting someone, anyone, to stop it. Only then do I realize it's up to me and Deborah. Somewhere around bullet ten or eleven, she pulls the trigger. At a range of maybe three meters, she misses.

  I don't even know all the details of what happens next. My feet are on the floor, and in no time at all, I've cleared the distance and swing the seventy-kilo gurney so hard it catches air. The cop and gurney cave in a gigantic hole in the wall, showing broken sheetrock and wooden beams.

  I reach down, seize the cop by the vest and lift him out of the mess. He might be holding his pistol still; he might not. I hurl him to the floor headfirst and see the gun slide away. Still furious, I kick the limp body. I feel no better.

  I rush over to Deborah, who is hunched over Jessica. I try to sit Jess up, finding her body loose, like water flowing between my fingers. But it's not water soaking my hands. When she coughs, shocking-bright crimson paints her lips.

  "Can you stand?" I ask.

  She shakes her head, a tiny movement. "Spine."

  I can't think of the next thing to say. My mind is filled with everywhere she's been hit, the massive trauma she's taken that could kill the unkillable.

  "Call Infinity," I tell Deborah. "Get help."

  Deborah has her headset out of her jacket. "Infinity?" she calls into it. "Infinity, Jess is hurt bad. Come in." There's an awful moment of silence. "Oh, God, she's not—"

  "We need help. We're going to find her." I turn back to Jessica, trying to guess what I can do to stop the bleeding. She has more wounds than we have hands.

  "Carrie," she says, or at least that's what I think she says. It takes me a second to figure out it's carry. I lift her, feeling a little unsteady but not from her weight. I can do this. I have to.

  "We'll get you out of here," I tell her as we begin walking. Deborah jogs ahead, playing scout, looking furtively at every open doorway. "You just heal up. You're my favorite vampire."

  "Liar."

  "Well, either way, you're going to make it, all right?" Deborah waves us on, and I run.

  "We're not," she hisses out, like she's trying to talk without using her lungs.

  "What?"

  "Not vampires. They live forever."

  "Don't talk like that."

  She gives me a sideways glance as her head rolls back. "Doesn't matter."

  "I'm serious, Jess," I say. "When all of us are dead, kids are going to be learning your name in school."

  "Shit," she says.

  "I'm not kidding. Didn't you watch the whole trial?"

  "No."

  "Those bastards tried to register a scientific name for us. We're Cruorimbibo ulan."

  "Ulan?" she says and gives a little smile before she dies.

  64 - INFINITY

  I jump back around a corner, signaling to Roland with my hands. No goddamn way. I saw four guards together, wearing crisp, white uniforms instead of the light blue ones of the guards at the entrance. They’re carrying long guns of some kind—probably shotguns.

  "Stop!" yells a voice from down the hall. Great. That's what I get for poking my head out. Roland doesn't need prompting. We both take off, down every twist of the corridors we can find. We see an exit sign, but it leads to stairs instead of an actual door out. I go down, only because it’s faster than going up. We burst out and mercifully don't land in anyone's sights.

  "Wait," Roland says, after we take another three turns. "Look. No cameras."

  He's right. For whatever reason, this stretch of real estate isn't monitored, at least not by anything I can see. It's a good place to lose pursuit.

  "Disappear," I say. He finds steel-plated double doors that open with a button.

  "Uh, are you sure—" I say, taking in the warning labels. There's a trefoil of biohazardous waste and something about protective garments. "It says level 5 here…"

  "That's you," he says, and I slip inside before anyone sees. As the doors click shut behind us, I feel marginally safer. We're in a dim room, a shadowy antechamber lit by a pale glow of monitors and a window up ahead. Instrument panels are arranged below the window, warm but not inviting. Confused, I creep forward. I shoot a glance at Roland—he says nothing, but it's clear he doesn't know what this place is, either.

  Something thuds up ahead. Slow and regular, the heartbeat of a mammoth.

  I look through the window. This isn't a lab like the ABEL facility. We're in a booth looking straight out across an enormous chamber, like a mead-hall for Vikings or something. The tables studding the floor are covered in white body bags, lit by muted overhead lights and a bright flare like magnesium coming from the end of the room. As I watch, a monstrous shadow blots out the flare. It hurls something into the light and clangs shut enormous doors. A roaring sound drowns out the noises of an armored F-prot by the side of the room, who pulls out a drawer with another body bag.

  The monstrous thing heads our way, but it doesn't appear to have seen us. I've heard of man-shaped drones and industrial robots, but the last time I saw one was on a school field trip. I glance over at Roland. He's watching the three-meter metal monster.

  "You going to be okay?" I whisper. "I know you're afraid."

  "I'm not afraid of drones. I'm afraid of death," he says. "It's too tough to punch, too dead to use qi, and it's bulletproof."

  I hear something and point up. The driver's above us. I clutch my useless carbine. Roland puts a restraining hand on it. We're still being hunted. Holding still could save our lives.

  The drone thumps along on boxlike feet over to the drawer that the F-prot opened. I'm not sure who it is since it's still helmeted, but Breunig wouldn't be on the menial tasks. Ebe is out.

  Whoever it is skips back as the drone reaches down with its grabbing digits and hefts the body into the air. The F-prot moves again, nervously, as the drone returns to the furnace on the far wall. It grasps the locking mechanism and gracefully releases it.

  "They're burning them," Roland whispers.

  I can't look away. "They're burning us."

  A body, a faceless mannequin, goes into the light, and then there's a slam of metal.

  "How can they do this?" I say, trying to keep it to a hiss. "We know them."

  "It's easier than you think." I look at him. He doesn't say, but I know what he's thinking.

  "We're different," I say.

  "You, maybe."

  "We're different now."

  Roland seems distant. Then, he points. "That's Olsen. Her rifle's on the table. I'll go. Can you get up this ladder quietly?"

  I look at it and nod. I sling the carbine on my back. Roland pulls out the little silenced pistol and dials up his stimweb. I'm about to ask him if he has enough juice to do it,
but then something makes me turn away from him and focus on the task at hand. That's a yes.

  I move out carefully and crouch low, hoping the tables and the distance help keep me inconspicuous. Olsen, at the far end of the hall, is busy keeping an eye on the drone so she doesn't get squished. I can hardly blame her. I wait for Roland to get close before starting my ascent—if they hear me or spot me, this will all go south immediately.

  Now that Roland is half a room away, it's easier to look at him—he's stealing closer and closer to Olsen, ready to pounce—and it hits me. If I can see him, so can the man in the booth. Roland's concealment has less power than he realizes.

  The drone whirs and turns. It clicks on a klieg light. Olsen, alerted, sprints for her rifle.

  I have no choice. I scramble up the ladder, being as silent as possible, watching in terror as Roland beats Olsen to the gun. They tussle, and Roland fires right in her helmet, but then a second pop sounds, and I realized the F-prot has shot back with a sidearm. There's a blur of hands, a yell of pain and thumps from the goddamn drone as it closes in on him.

  I hurl myself into the booth. Yarborough is at the controls, his helmet off so he can see better, and he looks at me in momentary fear before he reaches for his carbine, on the chair next to him. We grab it at the same time, and I tear it out of his grasp. He goes for his pistol and eats the butt of his rifle as I slam it into his head. He and his chair go over backward.

  I kneel on his arm, pinning it as I bean him in the skull again with the rifle. I'm about to keep going when I realize Yarborough's eyes have rolled back into his head. Instinct tells me to hold off. I pry his pistol from him, get the backup pistol off his ankle, and look for Roland.

  He has Olsen in a headlock, as if she tried to dive for his legs and was stopped. Roland has collapsed on her, maybe trying for a guillotine choke, refusing to let go because the floor is full of dropped guns. The drone is thumping down at both of them, a metric ton of metal with no one at the wheel.