Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  “Why?”

  “We received word that an anonymous call just went out to local police and local news about the building.”

  “Can’t you redirect them?”

  “We might be able to hold them off for a little, but that’s it.”

  “Don’t we have any people in the area?”

  “We have one guy, a state trooper, but today’s his day off.”

  “Well fucking call him and get him over here.”

  He clicked off, more irritated now than ever before, staring off at the blank wall, seething, when another blast caused the building to shake, to tremble, to feel like it was about ready to fall down around itself.

  Behind him, Matheson shouted, “What is happening?”

  Hogan, doing a better job of restraining himself than Zach: “We have to leave, sir.”

  “How could you let this happen?”

  Zach spun around, his face a volcano about to erupt, the words on the tip of his tongue bubbling lava, but instead he said, as calmly as he could, “Sir, we are executing a code black. It’s best you come with me and my associate right now.”

  “What about him?” Matheson asked, a bony, accusatory finger pointed straight at Eli strapped to the bed.

  Zach kept it as simple as possible: “He can stay here and die.”

  sixty-five

  The smoke is starting to clear.

  Thirty seconds have passed since the second blast, maybe a minute, and nothing has happened.

  The garage door still remains closed.

  I can feel Ashley looking at me, wanting to get my attention, so I glance at her and see it in her eyes, the questions, the confusion, the worry, the same things probably mirrored in my eyes right now. Because this, this right here, isn’t right. Stuff should be happening. Those two blasts should have put things in motion, big things, life-altering things, things that may be too big for me to handle, though I’m going to try. That’s why I’m here, after all, Ashley, too, the two of us wearing the Kevlar vests, the ones that are supposed to stop bullets, though Marta had been wearing one when David shot her in the throat and look how effective her vest had been then.

  My mind is drifting, filling with worry, with excuses, stretching the time out much longer than is possible, so that a second feels like a minute, a minute an hour, an hour a day. Only an hour hasn’t yet passed. A minute’s hardly passed. And still nothing has happened besides the smoke starting to clear. The sound of sporadic traffic out on the highway, the smell of grass and leaves and dirt around us, the blood pounding in my ears—all of it is how it should be at this moment, and yet that damned garage door still hasn’t moved.

  I look at Ashley, wanting to tell her something, but before I can, her eyes narrow and she ducks down, her voice soft and tiny with just one word: “Look.”

  Now, besides the clearing smoke, is a single figure moving around the building. He’s dressed in tan slacks and a robin’s egg blue shirt, like he’s just your average nine-to-five office worker, only he has a rifle in his hands, much like the one I’m currently gripping. And right now he’s headed around the building, having probably exited through the front door, the man swiveling his head back and forth searching for me. Because these people, they have to know by now who’s tracked them down, who set off those two bombs, the son coming to rescue the father.

  I grab the third detonator, lightly touch my thumb to the plunger.

  “Wait,” Ashley whispers, “don’t—” but by that point I’ve already pushed down on the plunger, and a second later the third bomb goes off ... only the blast comes from the other side of the building, not the side the man with the rifle is currently on.

  I look down at the ground in front of me, at the two detonators I’ve already used, and the one that I haven’t. Obviously I picked up the wrong one. I’d thought I laid them out in order, but apparently not, and now the guy with the rifle is still alive when he should be dead, blown to pieces in the blast.

  I consider grabbing the fourth detonator, setting the last bomb off, but it’s too late. The man, thrown to the ground by the blast, has gotten back to his feet. He’s coughing because of the smoke and the dust, wiping at his eyes with the hand not gripping the rifle, and he’s looking around the area, trying to find our location. Another blast would eliminate him in no time, but I don’t want to waste it if I don’t have to, so I say to Ashley, “Go to the truck, now,” and I grab the assault rifle and rush forward, through the trees, down the slight incline, focused on the man who spots me coming and takes aim.

  I’m aware of a tree close by exploding, splinters of bark hitting my face, but it’s a secondary awareness, like muzak at the grocery store. Instead my main focus is on the trees ahead of me, the branches, the roots, visualizing them as taxis and buses and cars on a busy Manhattan street, pedestrians up on the sidewalk, horns blaring, construction off in the distance, exhaust and ozone thick in the air, and there I am on my bike, pedaling as fast as I can, trying to make the deadline while at the same time taking in everything around me—litter in the gutters, a hot dog stand, a homeless guy parked just outside a bank, holding a misspelled sign—and I’m doing it all here, noticing it all, soaking it in like a sponge, ignoring the man shooting at me, knowing that he isn’t going to hit me, that he can’t hit me, and then before I know it I’m well within range, close enough that I’m comfortable aiming the rifle and firing.

  The man doesn’t go down, not at first. I’m no expert with a firearm by any means, but I understand the basic principles. The guy starts to run toward the building for cover, and I keep squeezing the trigger, aiming for him, then aiming ahead of him, toward the space he’s going to be in the next second, and one of my bullets cuts him down before he reaches the building, his body jerking once before falling to the ground.

  I pause then, breathing heavily, blood singing in my ears, surprised that I’m still alive.

  I glance back over my shoulder but Ashley’s gone, now headed toward the truck. Good. That’s good. And it’s also good that I’m still alive. I even pat my chest, my legs, expecting to touch blood, a bullet hole, something, but nothing appears to be out of place.

  Just then, less than one hundred yards away, the garage door starts to rise.

  sixty-six

  “No,” Matheson said, petulant, crossing his arms like a child, “absolutely not. He must come with us.”

  It took everything Zach had at that moment to keep his composure. He caught a warning look from Hogan and nodded slightly, acknowledging the fact that he knew what was at stake. Matheson was no longer the big cheese he liked to believe he was—his role in everything had come to an end years ago—but he still carried some weight and had the ear of several important people, almost all of those in the Inner Circle and even higher, so those on Zach’s and Hogan’s level knew better than to disrespect him. Most times. Times when their own lives and the possibility of exposure weren’t at risk.

  “Fine,” Zach said, “but we need to hurry.”

  Hogan started for the door. “I’ll head up top and secure the area.”

  Zach nodded and started after him.

  Matheson asked, “Who’s going to bring him with us?”

  Shit.

  Zach turned, his hands balled into fists, the nails digging into his palms, hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t bother answering. He just moved quickly, hurrying over to the bed, undoing first the straps keeping Eli’s feet to the bed, then his hands. He stood back, ordering Eli to stand up, keeping his distance because even though the man was much older than Zach, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Another blast then, causing the building to tremble just like before, except this time the sprinklers in the ceiling went off, a steady patter of artificial rain.

  Watching Eli carefully as Eli swung his feet off the bed and started to stand, Zach extracted his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Tyson.

  “Yeah?”

  “Another blast just occurred. Unless there’s a fire upstai
rs, it turned on the sprinklers. Can you override the system and shut them off?”

  “I can try, but it’s doubtful. The sprinkler system hasn’t been updated in a few years. It’ll have to be done manually.”

  “Forget it. Any word on that trooper?”

  “He’s on his way, but it’ll be at least ten minutes before he gets there.”

  “What about the local news and police?”

  “We’ve created distractions for them both, but it won’t hold forever.”

  Zach disconnected the phone, shoved it back in his pocket. Eli was on his feet now, staring at him as he blinked away the falling water.

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  Eli did as he was told. Zach circled the bed, taking one of the straps and using it to secure Eli’s wrists together. He took Eli’s arm and steered him toward the door, Matheson following behind them.

  Zach pushed Eli out into the corridor. Farther down he saw the two staff members getting the children together. None of the ten children were reacting to the flashing red LEDs along the corridor or the sprinklers. None were crying. None were even showing any kind of fear. They were quiet, passive, their spirits having been broken long ago. They did as they were told because that was their nature.

  “Where are the surrogates?” Eli asked.

  “What surrogates?” Zach said, then remembered he shouldn’t waste a breath on this man. He turned back and waited for Matheson to steer himself out of the room, all too conscious of the seconds counting down on his watch, and then they started down the corridor.

  The two staff members were women. Zach asked them, “Either of you have a gun?”

  One of the women handed him a Beretta.

  He nodded his thanks and pushed forward past the children, his one hand gripping the gun, his other hand gripping Eli’s arm.

  “Why are there children here?” Eli asked.

  “Shut up.”

  They came to the elevator. Zach smacked the button. It lit up briefly, then went out.

  Behind him, Matheson said, “It won’t work in case of a fire.”

  The door leading into the stairwell stood beside the elevator. Zach kicked the door open, turned back to face the scientist.

  “Can you walk at all?”

  “No.”

  Of course not.

  Zach shoved Eli face first up against the wall, tore the bindings off his wrists, spun him back around, and pushed him toward Matheson.

  “Carry him.”

  Eli nearly tripped over his own feet, almost went down right into Matheson, but managed to catch himself on the arm of the wheelchair. He stared at Matheson for a long moment, then stood up straight and turned back to Zach.

  “No.”

  The LEDs still flashing red, the sprinklers still raining down water, those seconds ticking off on his watch as palpable as anything else in the world at that instant, the knowledge that John fucking Smith was responsible for all of it, Zach momentarily lost control of himself. His fist slammed into Eli’s stomach, and the old man doubled over, falling to his knees, wheezing. Zach wasted no time—he grabbed Eli by the back of his soaked sweatshirt, yanked him to his feet, and pressed the barrel of the gun into the side of his head.

  “I’m not telling you again. Carry him.”

  sixty-seven

  The garage door opens. Almost immediately an engine growls inside. Headlights flash on, tires squeal, and a car is racing toward me. It’s the same car that entered the garage twenty minutes ago, the windows tinted so I can’t see the driver or anybody else in the car, but right now none of that matters because it’s almost reached me, intent on running me over.

  I dive out of the way at the last moment, rolling into the grass and dropping the rifle in the process. Scrambling back to my feet, grabbing the rifle again, I watch as the car brakes hard and fishtails. The passenger’s side window lowers and a man leans out, gun in hand. I fire at him before he has a chance to fire at me, and it gives me an extra second of breathing room, that’s all, before the guy just points the gun out through the window and starts shooting blind, or at least not completely blind, seeing me through the tinted windshield while I can’t see him.

  The distance between us is maybe eighty yards.

  Time to make some real fireworks.

  Tossing the rifle aside, unstrapping the RPG, I drop to one knee and place the missile launcher on my shoulder. Having looked over the thing earlier, I know exactly what I need to do to make it fire, and I do those things now—flipping open the sight piece, flicking the safety off so the thing is primed and ready to go.

  The driver and passenger understand my intention immediately. The gun disappears back inside the car as its tires start to squeal again, only this time the car doesn’t rush at me. Instead it starts to speed backwards, down the drive.

  I can’t wait any longer. I aim low and squeeze the trigger. The RPG shakes on my shoulder and then the missile is gone, one-quarter second in the launcher, the next one-quarter second under the car.

  The explosion is massive, a gigantic fireball, sending the car airborne. It hangs there above the ground for a second or two before gravity pulls it back down, tipping over and landing on its hood.

  I don’t move at first, completely amazed that it worked as well as I had hoped. Then I toss the RGP aside, grab the rifle, and hurry toward the open garage door.

  sixty-eight

  “What are you doing with those children?” Eli asked.

  Nobody answered him. Not Zach, and not Matheson, who Eli currently cradled in his arms like a husband ready to take his bride across the threshold. Only they weren’t going over any threshold. They were going up stairs, a full flight, if not two flights, the ten children already ahead of them with the women, marching single file like silent, vacuous robots.

  “My wheelchair,” Matheson said. “We can’t just leave my wheelchair.”

  “You’ll get another one,” Zach said. Despite the fact he was soaked—they were all soaked, thanks to the sprinklers—he still looked intimidating, his eyes hard, his face stone, his jaw clenched so tight Eli wouldn’t be surprised if he cracked a tooth. The gun stayed in Zach’s right hand, aimed at Eli’s spine.

  “Why can’t you carry me?” Matheson asked, looking at Zach over Eli’s shoulder.

  Zach, staying a few steps behind as Eli trudged up the stairs, said nothing.

  Eli had never been a super strong man by any means, but Matheson wasn’t very heavy, maybe one hundred fifty pounds, the cancer leaving him all skin and bones. Sure, Eli was being forced to do this, or at least that’s what Eli wanted Zach and Matheson to think. Eli had been all set to keep refusing, no matter how many times Zach beat him, until an idea sprung up in the back of Eli’s mind, an idea as bright and beautiful as a rainbow after a storm.

  And so he carried Matheson, step after unsteady step, the children ahead of them having already reached the top, being ushered out through a single door, while Matheson kept whining for his chair until, realizing he wasn’t going to get his way, the old scientist started threatening Zach.

  “I’ll call Caesar myself, don’t think I won’t. He’ll have your job for this. He’ll kill you for this.”

  “The wheelchair stays,” Zach said, his voice showing no hint of fear, “plain and simple. I’m sure you have the money to buy another one, and if not, someone will buy it for you. But right now? Right now we’re facing a code black, which means we have to evacuate this place”—a pause as he checked his watch—“in just under thirteen minutes.”

  “Then why don’t you carry me? It’d be faster than this slug’s pace.”

  “And give Eli here an advantage? I don’t think so.”

  They trudged on, Eli carrying Matheson, Zach maintaining a three-step buffer behind them. No one had spoken for several long seconds, so Eli decided to voice his question again.

  “What are you doing with those children?”

  Zach said, “Don’t worry about it,” while
at the same moment Matheson said, “They’re for the games.”

  “What games?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zach said, louder and angrier now.

  “But what about Project Legion?”

  “The project is complete,” Matheson said. “It’s been complete for nearly ten years.”

  “That’s enough,” Zach said. “He doesn’t need to know anything else.”

  By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the children were gone, as were the two women. The door was closed.

  Zach went to the door, placed his hand on the knob, his back to Eli as he said, “You’re going to need to carry him out here, too.”

  “No I won’t.”

  Zach turned around, hesitant, sensing something in Eli’s words. His hard eyes went even harder when he saw Eli and what Eli intended to do.

  “Don’t,” he said, and aimed his gun at Eli’s face.

  Eli leaned back against the railing. Matheson was still in his arms, and the old scientist seemed to know exactly what Eli meant to do with him, because he started squirming around, trying to break out of the hold.

  “What are you going to do?” Eli asked. “Shoot me? Go ahead.”

  The gun in Zach’s hand didn’t waver. He stared straight back at Eli, his face impassive.

  “Help me!” Matheson shouted, trying to crawl out of Eli’s arms. “Help me!”

  Eli said to Matheson, “Say goodbye to your legacy,” and with what little strength he had left, he pushed Matheson over the railing, pushed him as hard as he could, distantly aware of the gunshots and the bullets as they tore into his back, watching the old scientist crying out and flailing as he fell to the bottom.

  Eli stood there then, his hands now clutching the railing, his body jerking as another bullet tore into his back.