A faint disturbance drifted from the forest behind him—a sound he couldn’t place but that stirred the same fear as spiders and goons. He scanned through the undergrowth. Nothing moved but the leaves waving gently in the wisp of breeze that penetrated that far.
He focused on the sound as it grew louder while he moved out beyond the forest edge, watchful of the road and the building’s windows.
Louder now, the sound awoke a memory of a heavy beast on four steel legs. Now it trod on soil and leaf litter instead of hard desert and patches of sand.
The top of a sapling thrashed aside.
Jason turned and ran across open ground to a shattered glass door and stepped through the frame. Foul carpet lined the ground-floor lobby. Trash, a broken bong, and fallen ceiling panels lay about.
Somewhere high above the far side of the building, helicopter blades thumped the air. He peeked outside through a dirty window in the direction of the abandoned SUV. Smoke billowed, increasing by the second.
So much for the SUV. It had carried him through a long ordeal, but now he’d travel on foot unless help arrived.
In the woods below the smoke, the clanker’s head burst through a large tuft of leaves.
From behind some roadside trees and undergrowth came the sound of tires rolling at high speed. The vehicle slowed rapidly before reaching the fence line. Jason watched the parking lot through another grimy window.
A gray SUV appeared and turned in from the street. Another followed.
His only hope lay in finding a back exit, fast.
He ran across the lobby. None of the doors looked like a way out. No time to try them. Instead he entered a hallway and sprinted along the length of the building. At the end, a heavy fireproof door opened onto a stairwell.
No choice but up.
Without making a sound he closed the door behind him and climbed three floors to the top. Another fire door opened onto a large open-plan area with an array of pillars covered in cracked and peeling paint. On the dirty concrete floor lay the remains of a few cubicle panels, damaged desks, and the lower half of an office chair. A roll of carpet thrown against the wall was all that remained of the floor covering.
One small separate room occupied the corner beside the stairwell. Jason opened the door and checked inside. It held no place to hide nor anything useful. He closed it again.
Against the far wall stood a long, low rain-damaged cabinet with many pairs of double doors. A thick coat of mold stained the middle section where the roof leaked, and debris from the ceiling structure added to the chaotic mess. A grimy ceiling panel had fallen on the floor and leaned against a moldy pair of doors. Two more panels lay on the floor nearby.
Jason ran through the room, treading as lightly as possible. He halted in the middle. Behind him, his footprints were obvious in the dust layer that coated the floor. Everywhere he went, he left a trail for the goons to follow.
In the far corner of the building stood a door labeled “Stairwell” with “Roof Plant Access” written below that. He risked either a likely encounter with goons on the way down, or a four-story descent from the roof down the building’s exterior wall with a helicopter hovering above and a clanker patrolling below. No deal.
On the verge of committing himself to a final, fatal gunfight, a lunatic plan struck him. It was nuts, but he had no other hope left.
Making the messiest possible footprints, he left a frantic trail past the fallen ceiling panels to the stairwell with roof access. He opened the stairwell door, made tracks to the stepladder leading to the roof, then began walking backward in his own footprints. He nearly cursed every time his foot fell too far outside a print, but it would have to do. He needed to reach one of the fallen ceiling panels fast, and the goons might not notice his distorted footprints if they were distracted.
Jason stepped across from his footprints to one of the panels, then to the other one closer to the cabinet. He carefully lifted the first and used it as a stepping stone to reach the moldy cabinet. He moved aside the third panel leaning against it and opened the doors.
His nose screwed up at the smell of mold and dampness. Spiderwebs occupied the corners inside, but he had no time to deal with those.
He dragged the backpack straps off his shoulders and dumped the pack in the cabinet.
The other ceiling panel now had two obvious footprints on it. He reached out, flipped it over, and carefully positioned it back in its dust mark on the floor. The other side was a little too clean, but it was way better than footprints.
He squeezed his body inside with the spiders. From there he flipped the second panel. Then there remained only a tricky juggling of the grimy panel and the cabinet doors in order to close them with the panel back in its original place, leaning against the cabinet as if undisturbed for months or years.
Jason had one finger touching the panel through the nearly closed doors for a final check. Its bottom edge seemed to rest exactly in its dust mark on the floor.
The stairwell door burst open. Boots pounded on the concrete.
Jason jerked his finger inside. The doors bumped shut and the panel leaned back into its final resting place.
A powerful voice boomed out, “This is the top floor. Find them.”
The room shook with what sounded like a heavy kick that sent the door to the corner room crashing off its hinges.
“Clear,” a different voice said.
“Search that cabinet,” the leader said.
Jason tightened his grip on the M4. A spider began crawling across his hand.
“Footprints, sir,” one of the men said.
“They’re on the roof,” a new voice said, much nearer.
“Go,” the leader said.
Boots pounded fast across the room. Jason heard the roof access door open. “Clear,” the first man said. “There’s a ladder. But we’ll get our heads shot off at the top.”
“It’s your job to figure out how to avoid that on the way up. Go or I’ll shoot it off myself.”
Soon they would find nothing up there. Jason’s hands ached from gripping the rifle. Breathing the stinking moldy air sent the urge to sneeze surging up his nose. His body convulsed in resistance.
The blast held. This time.
“Roof clear,” a voice said.
“Go look off the edge,” the leader said. A button clicked. “Daniels and Butthead, if they’re not climbing down the front, get around the back. Move.”
A reply came over a radio speaker. “Yes, sir.”
Footsteps approached from the entrance.
“The dog,” the leader said.
“Johnson said he can get it here in fifty-five minutes if he sets the risk to five percent,” the new man said.
“Let me speak to him.”
Jason only heard the leader’s half of the conversation.
“Johnson, these people belong to a new and more dangerous group than Crimson Unity. Related to that escapade at Zarather’s place.” His voice shifted into charismatic tones that seemed to offer divine approval. “When I recruited you, remember I said sometimes we must make sacrifices? I don’t want to give orders like this but it’s necessary—set the risk level to twenty percent and you’ll arrive in about fifty minutes. The law of diminishing returns means you only save five minutes, but each minute is precious. The risk is worth it to secure our future from these madmen.”
He even sounded genuine. What strange kind of man stood out there in the abandoned room? He seemed to believe the sentiments his soothing voice expressed. Could his words actually be a true expression of what he thought and felt?
The dynamic between the leader and his men held an eerie similarity to Michael’s description of how his captors acted as they waited for their special guest. This had to be the man the goons feared. This was Lowgrave.
Lowgrave replied to an inaudible response. “Good. Arrive with the dog in fifty minutes. When we catch the maniacs you’ll be overjoyed at the risk you took.”
Half-Bit had made a
n interesting choice in recruiting this one. But never mind that. The sniffer dog would find Jason even if Lowgrave failed to figure out where he was first.
If Jason rammed the doors open and tried to fire, Lowgrave seemed like the type of man who would smile smugly, pull a pistol, and shoot him once in the head. And then follow it up with a victorious smart-ass remark.
Better to wait and see if some of them went downstairs.
Suddenly an explosive shock wave hit the windows. The cabinet doors rattled from the blast and Jason heard shards of shattered glass pelting the room. He held his breath as the cloud of dust and mold intensified around him.
Multiple pairs of boots stampeded over to the stairwell.
“They’re outside,” Lowgrave said. “Those two down there are useless.”
The stairwell door slammed. Jason pushed open the doors an inch, but he had no way to see past the panel blocking his view.
To hell with it. Time to go.
Jason burst out of the cabinet, rammed the panel to the ground, and aimed the M4 across the room.
He found it empty.
Across glass fragments he ran to the front windows and hid behind a large dirty shard that still clung to its frame. The scene below showed through the grime.
Two goons were watching their SUVs burn. One lay on its side.
Jason sprinted to the stairwell beside the roof access, figuring it must emerge near the ground-floor entrance. He pushed through the door, ready to shoot anyone on the other side.
The top level was empty. A door closed far below.
He descended the stairs.
Twenty
JASON TOOK THE steps as fast as possible while trying to tread lightly. It made for a funny gait, but he moved with a mean scowl on his face. He kept the M4 trained on the door to each level as it came into view. Sometimes he checked over the railing for goons lurking on the floors below.
They all seemed to be outside.
At the ground-floor door he paused and listened. A barely audible noise penetrated the heavy door. Maybe a man shouting.
He held up the M4 with his right arm and inched the door away from its jamb until a sliver of light appeared. A wave of sound swept in through the gap. The crackling of burning vehicles. No more shouting.
Out near the fires, Lowgrave stood over one of the men Jason had seen from above. The man knelt before his leader, almost like a sinner kneeling before a statue of Christ. He gave off an air of repentance as he gazed at Lowgrave’s knees. Lowgrave held a pistol in his hand.
“I take full responsibility, sir. I should have been more observant, sir. I failed to learn the lessons on vigilance, sir. I place my fate in your hands and pledge that it will never happen again if I am granted the chance to serve after this, sir.”
For a few seconds Lowgrave contemplated the man. Then he holstered the pistol and mouthed one inaudible word. The man began rising to his feet, and when he reached the right height, Lowgrave rammed a balled fist into his solar plexus. The goon doubled over, arms clutching his midriff, and Lowgrave shouted, “Remember the pain. It disciplines the mind.”
The man coughed and staggered further away from the fire.
A gust of wind wafted smoke across the entrance and obscured the men from view.
Jason took the chance to push open the door and step out into the rear of the lobby.
In his exposed position he needed to find an exit fast or he’d be heading straight back into the stairwell. He faced a pair of double doors. Only a patch of glue remained where a sign had once hung. In spite of the fog of terror that seized his brain, he asked himself what such doors meant, and got an answer: deliveries. That meant a rear exit.
While the shield of smoke outside thinned, he rushed over and shoved the door open without checking for anybody waiting beyond, then he gently shut it.
Somebody had forced up the delivery bay door to open a man-sized gap. He removed his backpack, pushed it through the narrow space, and scraped his own body under after it. He flung the pack onto his back again.
Outside, long unkempt grass lined the rear fence. A triangular tear in the chain link provided an exit to the other side. But the helicopter still hovered nearby. Soon the goons would probably spread out and search the area.
Jason backed away from the building while searching above the roof for the smallest possible sign of the chopper hovering somewhere nearer the front. His hands gripped the M4, ready for any uniformed oppressors who might round the corner of the building. A column of thick black smoke still rose from the goons’ vehicles.
He kept an ear out for the metallic trot of the quadruped. Probably it still snooped for targets somewhere nearby.
One more step back and the edge of a circular blur of rotor blades appeared above the roof’s rusty gutter. The helicopter hovered over the road. Maybe his allies had fled that way. But too much distance still lay between him and the fence to make a run for it. Airborne goons would spot him.
The chopper drifted toward the smoke column. A little further and it would pass behind it.
Jason shuffled sideways to stand opposite the rip in the fence. The helicopter continued to drift. He removed his pack.
The helicopter drifted further until smoke billowed in front of it and it disappeared.
Pack in his arms and M4 slung on his back, he ran to the fence, hurled the pack through, and dragged himself after it. On the other side, he crawled forward on his belly along the fence line hidden by the grass, shoving the pack ahead of him.
Through blades of grass he tried to spy the helicopter. The smoke still hid it from view.
Lowgrave rounded the corner. He advanced on Jason’s position.
Jason looked toward his boots. Nothing stuck out, and the grass was thick enough near the ground to hide him. Maybe a high-resolution satellite sweep had spotted him. But Lowgrave seemed too calm to be confronting a gun-toting subversive. Or maybe he thought Jason the equal of a mouse.
The M4 still rested on Jason’s back. If he went for it, Lowgrave might see the movement. Or maybe the head goon already knew his prey’s every move.
Lowgrave stopped two yards from Jason and turned. He gazed up at the air-conditioning compressor on the roof and then swept his eyes along the entire length of the building.
“Damn it,” he said, “when will they learn they can’t do their jobs with their dicks in their hands thinking of gay porn.” He walked back to the building and disappeared around the corner.
Jason began a long crawl, covered in sweat and dust. He head-butted the pack forward while edging ahead on elbows and knees. If Lowgrave had ordered a satellite, one would soon sweep the area from the correct angle to see him.
When he neared the end of the lot, he heard footsteps trampling the grass beyond the fence. Jason inched in as close as possible to the edge of the undergrowth and stretched flat to the ground, exhaling to make himself smaller.
Over the sound of the helicopter, he heard a voice say, “Clear on this side. Heading for the back entrance.”
Boots trotted off. The steel delivery bay roller door thundered and the voice said, “Fuck it, crawl under.”
Steel rumbled and the voices ceased.
Jason pressed on. The fence continued past another wide lot, but the fence-line grass became shorter. With that as the only cover, he needed to stay nearly flat to the ground for the full stretch to remain hidden from the helicopter. Beyond the chain-link fence, a higher, solid corrugated steel fence around a third lot offered a chance to get up and run with his head down.
He fell into a determined rhythm against the constant background beat of the helicopter. Red, chafed elbow forward and planted on the dirt. Advance the opposite knee. Repeat for the other pair. Start the cycle again.
When he was a few yards from the solid fence, the direction of the helicopter’s sound changed. At first the machine was invisible, but then it emerged from behind the smoke column and he saw the whole thing for the first time—black, with no markings other th
an the usual registration number. It moved across toward his side of the fence. If it got much closer, neither the grass nor the solid fence beyond would offer any cover at all.
The man in the left seat of the chopper looked in Jason’s direction but didn’t appear to react.
His head turned the other way.
Jason grabbed the pack, leapt to his feet, sprinted the short distance to the solid fence, and kept going with his head ducked. He didn’t look back. Seconds remained before the airmen would be able to see behind the fence line.
At the corner, he grabbed the last corrugation in the steel to swing his weight around behind the side fence. He needed to cross vacant ground to reach more forest. He pulled out his phone and held the camera above the fence.
The small image of the helicopter began turning away. When its tail nearly pointed toward him, he ran the last stretch to better cover.
In the woods, he stopped to drink from a water bottle. His eyes darted about, searching for any mechanical presence. As far as he knew, the clanker was still roaming the area.
A voice came from beside him. “Hey.”
Startled, Jason pulled the bottle from his lips, flinging water out onto the ground. From a small patch of undergrowth, a face looked up at him. A man, maybe a couple of years younger than Jason. He looked familiar.
Jason gulped down the last mouthful of water and said, “You were at the factory with Eddie.”
“Yeah. We got your message. Saved your ass again, huh?”
Jason squatted down. “It helped. Thanks. I’m Jason, if you don’t remember.”
“I’m Jay.”
An explosion ripped through the air and echoed off the buildings.
The sound of the helicopter changed. In the gaps between the trees both saw it spiraling down, out of control.
“You guys planted one on the chopper? How the hell?” Jason asked.
“Nah. Sniper rifle. The trigger is rigged to remote-detonate a bomb when you pull it. We chucked the bomb in some random spot nearby. Boom! Nobody knows where the shot came from.”
“I guess you guys were more interested in targets than helping me.”
Silicon Uprising Page 13
