SPARE PARTS (The Upgrade Book 4)

by Wesley Cross

  “We finally meet, Mr. Hunt,” Victor Ye said, stepping into view. His body was also covered in shiny scales, but unlike the Butcher’s thick, burnished plates, his armor seemed thin and had a mercury-like surface that almost looked liquid.

  Hunt had never seen any armor like this anywhere else except on Martin.

  Martin.

  As the world came back into focus, Jason looked in horror at the object that had smashed into him and sent most of his systems offline. In the middle of the carnage, a few feet away from the dazed Butcher, laid the twisted body of the cyborg. The head was almost separated from the body, sparks flying from ripped wires sticking out of the steel vertebrae. A big part of his right shoulder was missing, and his right leg was bent at the knee in the wrong direction. He wasn’t moving.

  Jason struggled to his feet in time to see Schlager charge at Victor Ye, shooting him at point-blank range. Victor shifted away from the blast, his movement so fast it looked blurred, his hand swatting the barrel like a tiresome pest and throwing Schlager on the ground.

  Hunt yelled in frustration and charged, but before he could cover even half the distance separating him from the crime boss, Victor Ye’s shoulder plates shifted, revealing a nose of a strange barrel.

  It spat blue fire.

  Jason Hunt’s limbs seized. He fell on his back, his EMU popping another urgent message, all pixelated and weirdly colored, and then all his systems went offline, plunging him into internal silence he hadn’t experienced for a long time. With no power, his chassis was too heavy to carry, and he stayed on his back, watching as Victor stepped over Martin, walked by Schlager’s crumpled body, and came closer.

  “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” the leader of the Red Dragon said, leaning over and grabbing Jason’s bionic arm. Then, in one powerful move, he ripped it from its shoulder socket.

  38

  The car flipped in the air, hitting the water upside down with a thunderous crash. The airbag exploded in Connelly’s face, blinding him. He hung off the chair for a second, dazed, the skin on his hands feeling the burn of the airbag, the seat belt painfully biting into his shoulder.

  “Helen?” he called, but she didn’t answer. Chen’s eyes were closed, a thin line of blood dripping down on the headliner below her head. It was getting dark inside the cabin as the car sunk into the dark-brown water of the river. The gurgling sound as the liquid sipped into the insides of the vehicle was getting louder. They needed to get out. Fast.

  Connelly placed his left hand below his head for support and disconnected the seat belt. He collapsed onto the roof and turned around, cursing at the pain in his neck.

  “Helen, come on,” he called again, but she was unresponsive still. Connelly unbuckled her seat belt, catching her fall, and placed his ear to her face as the darkness enveloped the car.

  She was breathing. Good.

  He tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. They weren’t deep yet, but it was deep enough to make the door feel heavier than anything he could move. He’d need to equalize pressure first. Connelly hit the power window switch, expecting the water to rush in, but nothing happened. He tried it a few more times and then leaned over Chen and tried hers. Nothing.

  Shit.

  Connelly turned around and, using the headrest for support, kicked the windshield with both legs. It cracked with a crunching sound, a long, dark line running across the glass.

  He hit it again, aiming at the fault line, leveraging the weakness. It crunched again, louder this time, concentric circles radiating from where his boots had hit the glass. Water seeped through the gaps around the seal, small rivulets pulling into puddles.

  “Come on,” he yelled, putting his weight into another kick. The windshield gave, Connelly’s feet going through the rubbery mosaic of broken glass, letting the torrent of dark, icy water into the cabin. He grabbed Helen under the arms and held her, shivering, as high as he could, giving her a few more precious seconds to breathe. When water reached his chin, he held his breath, reached out, and tried the door handle again. It worked, letting more water in and pushing the last pockets of air out.

  He grabbed Chen and pushed with all his might, clawing with one hand against the brown liquid, reaching for the dim light overhead. His lungs burned, longing for a mouthful of fresh air as he kicked and clawed, and then kicked and clawed again.

  He broke the surface, gasping and choking, pushing Chen’s head above the water. They were a few hundred yards downstream from the bridge, the distant sounds of gunfire fading like fireworks.

  He kicked as hard as he could, pushing for the shore, and soon he was dragging Chen’s body out of the water and onto the muddy bank covered in sharp gravel. He brushed the rocks aside, clearing some space, took off his jacket, and laid Chen on top of it. She wasn’t breathing, her usually bronze skin pale with a bluish tinge.

  “Damn it.” He interlocked his fingers, placing his palm on her chest, and gave it a series of quick, hard pushes. Then, he pinched her nose, placed his lips around hers, and blew air into her lungs, waiting for her chest to rise.

  She coughed, spitting a small amount of water, and then rolled over on her side, retching into the mud.

  He held her until the spasms stopped and then helped her sit up.

  “I need to go back,” he said, pulling his jacket around her shoulders. It was soaked through and held little warmth, but she nodded, still unable to speak.

  He turned back to the river and, not giving himself enough time to find a reason not to, jumped back into the icy water. He fought the flow, his muscles cramping up from the cold, his lungs burning again for air. But there it was—the darker outline of the pickup truck, barely visible in the water thick with mud.

  The flow had shut the door again, and he wasted precious seconds prying it open and going back inside the cabin. Then, with the bankers box in his hands, he was swimming for the surface again.

  When he climbed up to the bank, he placed the box next to Chen and collapsed on the ground, not caring for the sharp pricks of gravel biting into his back. He welcomed the shivers that ran throughout his body as through pain they brought back control to his stiff muscles.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” His voice was raspy, his breathing ragged. “You?”

  “I’m fine.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Mike. You saved my life. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  He got up on his elbows and looked toward the bridge. “The shooting stopped.”

  “Yes. My shiny new implant can’t get a signal from anyone. All I get is an extra headache. You don’t have a radio, do you?”

  “Nope.” He tapped his belt. “It must’ve fallen off on impact.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We need a car.” Connelly forced himself up and looked around. There was a tree line two or three hundred yards away from where they were, and he thought he could see a road through the trees. “Let’s go. It looks like a road. We follow it until we find something.”

  “Did the papers survive?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, glancing at the soaked-through bankers box covered in smudges of brown mud. “But the sooner we bring it somewhere dry, the better.”

  The road turned out to be a railroad track running parallel to the river and as they followed it, they came up on a large L-shaped building that housed an auto parts store, a tile market, and a moving company. They sat, shivering, behind the trees and watched the parking lot in the back of the building for a few minutes and finally settled on a beat-up, white, working van that seemed to be parked there long-term.

  “Stay here,” Connelly said, setting the box down. “I’ll try to start it and then you can join me. Don’t come out if the alarm goes off.”

  “I have a better idea,” she said. “Let me try something else.”

  Before he could protest, Chen walked out of the trees and headed to
ward the line of cars. She stopped in front of the white van for a few seconds and then pulled on the driver’s door handle. Connelly tensed, anticipating the screeches of a car alarm, but nothing happened and Chen dived into the car. A moment later, the engine rumbled, and the headlights switched on.

  Connelly picked up the box of ballots and ran over to the parking lot.

  “Was it open?”

  “Nope.” She smiled and put the heat on full blast. “But it looks like my new gadget is actually good for something.”

  “I better make sure to never carry credit cards around you. Let’s get back to the bridge,” he said as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Whatever happened there is over, but I want to see the aftermath. It might give us some clues. But let’s circle around so we are moving in the opposite direction. Those lanes might still be closed.”

  “Okay.”

  They looped around the shopping center, watching warily for anyone who might recognize the van, but the area was empty save for a few cars and soon they were on a local road running parallel to the railroad tracks.

  “Did I imagine it was Victor Ye in some souped-up armor?” She broke the silence.

  “It was.”

  They drove through the underpass and turned north. It was an industrial area—a chemical plant, a few rows of warehouses, a car repair shop. But then they were in the suburbs again, and before long, Chen was getting onto the highway.

  “It’s ahead,” she said as they got closer to the crossing. “There’s a fire truck.”

  The traffic slowed to a crawl, as the cars ahead of them slowed down to look at what was happening on the opposite lane. Connelly could see the fire truck and as they moved even closer, two ambulances and, to his surprise, an armored police cruiser.

  “Martin.” Chen exhaled.

  He saw it too. The crumpled body of the cyborg laying in the middle of the lane, its head turned at an unnatural angle, the wires sticking out of his broken neck. The surrounding carnage was staggering. The truck with the trailer carrying ballots was missing, but the highway was littered with burned-out cars riddled with bullet holes.

  “Slow down,” he said as they got level with the ambulance. A man was being loaded inside of the truck. His face was caked with blood and at first Connelly thought he was dead. But he was covered with a blanket, and as the medic moved out of the way, the man turned his head ever so slightly. For the briefest moment, they made eye contact. “That’s Brian. Sorkin’s alive.”

  39

  Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop.

  The roof of the tent, pitched next to a tall northern red oak, was sagging under the weight of the dripping water. Jason Hunt squinted to see if there was a leak, but couldn’t tell in the diffused light of the electric lantern set to night mode. He pulled on the zipper of his sleeping bag and stuck his head out. It was cold. Even in the relative warmth of the triple-layered tent, the air was biting outside of the safe cocoon of his four-season sleeper. Up here, the days would get pleasant enough to strip down to a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while he watched the bobber attached to the end of his line go up and down with the waves. But as soon as the sun went below the jagged peaks, the temps dropped fast enough you could get your tongue stuck to the spoon you were licking a moment ago.

  He glanced at the bag next to him. His father was deep asleep, a soft snoring sound rolling off his slightly parted lips. White puffs of warm air rose over his mouth and disappeared in the darkness somewhere under the roof.

  His mother, perhaps wisely, declined to join them on the fishing trip, citing a weather report that had promised a generous amount of rain for the entire duration of the holiday dubbed by his father in advance as “the best fishing expedition ever.”

  He should have refused, too, but something in the way his father talked about the excitement of the upcoming trip made him say yes. High school was only a few weeks away and in some strange, telepathic way, he knew his father saw it as their last childhood trip. The last chance to spend some time with his son when he was not quite a man yet, but still a child—asking for fishing tips and relying on his parent for shelter. Perhaps his mother had felt it too, and it wasn’t the weather report after all, but her desire to give them space and a chance to bond one last time, to stretch the summer of simple days, that made her decide to stay.

  Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop.

  He pulled the zipper lower and sat up, a shiver running down his spine. His father stirred, his snores quieting down, but didn’t wake up.

  Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop.

  Jason reached out and touched the fabric with the back of his hand. It was wet. And cold. And it was smooth, like skin.

  It was strange. He brought his face closer to the fabric, straining to see in the dim light of the lantern, and recoiled in panic. Floating above him in the darkness was a face of a woman he hadn’t met yet.

  No, not above. Below.

  “Don’t be scared,” she said.

  Her face was wet. Her body was submerged in a tank of glowing yellowish liquid, dense enough to make her float without moving. Like a fly inside amber, he thought. The chrome-colored tank was propped on a large rolling table with a snake’s nest of wires coming underneath.

  “I can’t do it,” he said. “There’s gotta be another way.”

  “You know there isn’t.”

  “Maybe we can steal it,” he pleaded. “Steven has access to the labs. I’ll go there and take the prototypes.”

  “You know it’s not possible.” She smiled. “You’d need a team to install them. Doctors, nurses, engineers, programmers. Support staff. This is the only way.”

  “But to save you, we’d need to kill you,” he said. “I would need to kill you. I would have to tell Steven to stop your heart.”

  “Yes.” She smiled again. “And when I come back, I’ll be sure to milk it for as long as I can.”

  He laughed, but his eyes stung. It was cold in the makeshift lab, white puffs coming out every time she breathed, the steam condensing on the walls and ceiling. Dripping from the ceiling.

  “You better go, Jason.” He heard Poznyak’s voice. “You don’t want to be here when it happens.”

  “No. I’ll stay here.”

  It was getting colder still. He looked up at the ceiling, suddenly concerned for those drops of water.

  What if they get into the liquid? Will they screw up the formula?

  “Go, babe,” she said. “It’s okay. I know you’ll figure something out.”

  Reluctantly, he moved on toward the exit. Looking at her but thinking about the water condensing on every surface.

  “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “I know you will.”

  Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop.

  The walls were shaking. They swayed left and right. There was some shouting and cursing, and something fell with a loud, clanking noise and rolled away from his view. His body was cold, but his right arm was hot. Pulsating. Drops of bright ruby red seeping through a dirty T-shirt stuck to his ruined arm. Falling on the gray concrete floor as the gurney rolled on, marking his trail. A scarier version of Hansel and Gretel’s story.

  He shivered. He was colder still. But not because it was outside. No, this was the cold that came before the end. It seeped into the bones and turned your blood into a thick slush.

  The gurney bumped into the wall as it turned the corner, sending an electric jolt through his body.

  Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop. Drip plop drop.

  They rolled him onto the bridge. Now it was time for him to go. Could he go?

  He looked around. There was a car flipping in the air, going over the barrier. It was moving so slowly he could count the pieces of broken glass flying out of its side window. The driver was there. He looked dazed from the impact, a fresh cut above his left eyebrow. Still clean, but it would bleed soon. Jason could see the passenger there, too, her face slacked, eyes closed.
>
  He turned back to the bridge.

  A figure in shining armor was standing over the bodies, like a god who came down to Earth to smite mortals.

  The bodies.

  Jason Hunt looked at them. They were important to him. They used to be. The skinny man crumpled next to a tire of a car. Another man—a giant, part human, part machine.

  He gave them up. He knew that now. He exchanged their lives for the life of a woman.

  No.

  Not for a life of a woman. Just for a chance of her life. He liked to think that it was for a bigger cause. To bring technology to the people. Defeat death itself. He said as much. But in his heart of hearts, he knew it was not what drove him. He wanted to get his wife back. To go back to the simplicity of the days where the rest of the world could disappear and he wouldn’t care.

  Was it worth it?

  He thought it was. But he didn’t know the answer anymore. Not looking at the bodies. Not looking at the carnage on the bridge. The terrified faces of people in bullet-ridden cars stranded in the middle of a battle that they wanted to have no part of.

  His mind raced back to the place where he thought he’d never be able to go. To a secret lair somewhere deep inside the malfunctioning interface that sent pixelated pictures that made no sense to his weary brain. There, at the very bottom of the forbidden well, laid a solution that could give him peace. End the struggle. His enemies would celebrate. Their forces would march on to claim the victory, and the world would move on. But what did he care?

  A wave of cosmic lassitude was consuming him. He felt like a dying star, expanding as it cooled off, burning the last of its fuel. It was dark when he closed his eyes, and it was dark when he opened them. Nothing made sense anymore. He could hear a steady drip of water, the steady drumbeat that connected the past and the present. Sooner or later, he would have to make a choice, if there was going to be a future. Or someone else would make that choice for him.