Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  “You piece of shit!”

  Zach was beside him in an instant, the barrel of the gun burning into Eli’s neck, and Eli, still clutching the railing, three bullets in him, began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. He just started laughing, and before he knew it, Zach moved the gun down to his stomach and pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and all the while Eli laughed, blood deep in his throat, and he felt Zach grab him again and the next thing he knew he was in the air, weightless, seeing first Matheson’s sprawled and broken body at the bottom of the stairs and then seeing Zach at the railing, watching him, and even this didn’t stop Eli from continuing to laugh as he fell and fell and reached the point where he could fall no longer.

  sixty-nine

  The moment I step through the garage door, a bullet nearly takes me out.

  I duck low, sprinting as far left as I can, returning fire at the man shooting at me.

  The garage is mostly filled with vehicles. Two cars, one SUV, and a large white delivery truck.

  The man is standing near the delivery truck. He empties his entire magazine, and it’s when he pauses to reload do I get the advantage.

  My rifle kicks out its last shell. I toss it aside, grab the gun secured in the waistband of my jeans, aim at the man, and fire.

  The man slaps a fresh magazine in his rifle, starts to shoot back at me, but one of my bullets strikes his shoulder. He spins away. His rifle clatters to the ground.

  I advance across the dark garage—the few lights stationed about flickering red—and place two bullets in his head.

  That’s when I notice someone in the driver’s seat of the truck.

  I raise my gun but pause when I see it’s a woman.

  She screams, “Don’t shoot!”

  I lower my gun.

  She raises a gun.

  I duck as she fires, as she steps out of the truck, and I fire blindly again, running for safety beside the sedan parked beside the truck. I must be lucky, because she stops shooting, and when I look, I see that she’s on the ground, blood filling the pool that was just a moment ago her left eye.

  I eject the empty magazine, reload another, approaching the back of the delivery truck. Here is where the surrogates will be.

  Before I check on them I do a quick sweep of the rest of the garage, making sure the other vehicles are empty. Still, I approach the back of the delivery truck with caution, ready for anything.

  The delivery truck is parked with its nose toward the garage door, its back end facing three concrete steps that lead up to a door. Before I can go through that door, though, I need to check the truck.

  It’s slight, but I hear movement inside.

  The surrogates.

  I take hold of the lever which is locked in place. I lift the catch, spin the lever, and push up the door.

  I expect to see women. Young women eighteen years or older. All of them pregnant.

  But all that’s in here are children.

  White children, black children, brown children—there are nearly a dozen of them in all.

  They’re completely soaked, water dripping from their hair, from their clothes. They stare back at me, their eyes not wide at the gun in my hand, but indifferent, bored.

  Not sure what else to do, I lower the gun.

  And watch as one of the children stands up and aims a gun at me.

  I realize at the last second that it’s not a child, but a woman, just like the driver, a small, petite woman with short brown hair.

  She doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, as she shoots me in the chest.

  seventy

  They’d parked the U-Haul a quarter mile down the highway. Ashley had retrieved it and driven it here to the entrance of the drive leading back to the building. The plan, if everything went accordingly (fingers crossed), was that John would bring the surrogates down the drive to the truck in a vehicle. If there was no vehicle, he would call her and she would drive back to the building, but since the drive was a quarter mile long, they didn’t want to take any chances. That was why she was supposed to wait here, just wait, while John might be getting himself killed behind the grove of trees.

  The windows were down and she could hear the distant gunfire. Fortunately there were few buildings on this section of the highway. A tiny strip mall a half mile away, a tire store across the highway, and that was it. The traffic passing back and forth was sporadic, and she hoped it would stay that way.

  At one point there came another explosion, what sounded louder than the ones before, even through the trees.

  She closed her eyes, offered up a silent prayer.

  After a minute or two or three, she spotted flashing lights, and something dropped down deep in the pit of her stomach. It was the police. They were here, finally. Only she and John had hoped to be long gone by the time they arrived. Because otherwise they would be held for questioning, and it was a safe bet that the people behind all of this—people like her parents and even those further up the chain—would be able to get to Ashley and John if they were in custody, or even held for questioning. That’s why they needed to be long gone with the surrogates.

  As the flashing lights grew closer, Ashley realized they didn’t belong to a police cruiser at all, but rather to a pickup truck, a Toyota Tundra to be exact. Its paint was red, gleaming in the sun like it had been freshly washed and waxed, and it slowed as it began to make the turn onto the drive but then stopped abruptly. The red bubble light kept flashing on the truck’s dash.

  The driver wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes as he stepped out of the pickup, but she saw his solid chin, his massive chest, and pegged him at once for a cop.

  He approached her. “Ma’am?”

  A silver handgun rested on the passenger seat. Her fingers wrapped around the rubber grip as Ashley used her other hand to open the door, all the while keeping her gaze on the cop. She stepped down out of the cab, her right hand still on the handgun, just to be safe.

  She stood that way then, her two feet planted on the ground, the door open, her left hand at her side, her right hand squeezing the gun.

  “Ma’am, can I see your hands?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Woods, ma’am. I’m a state trooper. Can I see your hands?”

  He was reaching for his gun, holstered to a black leather belt with a Sam Browne buckle. He wore jeans and sneakers and a polo shirt. Hardly official police attire, even if he was a state trooper. It was almost like ... like he was working on his day off. Like he had been called here for a specific purpose.

  Ashley said, “Are you here stop the legion?”

  Woods hesitated a beat, his lips slightly parted, his eyes hidden behind the shades, but it was all Ashley needed to confirm the truth.

  She brought the silver handgun out just as Woods unsnapped the gun in its holster.

  She aimed at his chest and squeezed the trigger.

  The distance between them was barely forty yards. More than enough space for her to get off a good shot. And still the bullet went wide, taking out the Tundra’s headlight.

  Woods barely even flinched. He glanced at the pickup, stared a moment, then turned back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  “You stupid bitch,” he said, and started toward her.

  Ashley squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again, leaving the hulking shadow of the U-Haul and advancing toward the trooper. Her second bullet missed its mark just like the first, but the third and fourth bullets struck the trooper in the shoulder.

  He didn’t stop, though, just kept coming, pulling his own gun from the holster.

  Ashley fired off another round, this one hitting the trooper square in his chest. By then the distance between them was less than ten yards and he ran straight into her, knocking her to the ground.

  She lost control of the gun during the fall. The trooper was on top of her, his weight almost too heavy. Despite being shot, he was still alive, though barely. She could hear him gasping for breath. She c
ould feel him trying to hold her down as he moved the gun toward her head. Even as he died, he was attempting to finish his task and kill her.

  Ashley bucked beneath him, trying to push him off, but the man was too strong. Her own gun was just out of reach, and she knew better than to waste time trying to go for it. She would never have the chance, not with the man holding her down, blood now dribbling from between his lips, his sunglasses askew, one eye staring back at her filled with rage, and before Ashley knew it, she reached up, knocked the sunglasses off his face, and plunged her thumbs into his eyes.

  The trooper did not scream, or shout, or even make the slightest sound. But he dropped the gun and grabbed at Ashley’s hands, trying to pull them away.

  Ashley barely even struggled. Her main objective had been met—the trooper dropping the gun—and she grabbed it off the ground and pressed it against the trooper’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The trooper’s body jerked on top of her, and she squeezed the trigger again. The trooper’s body jerked once more, the rage disappearing from his eyes as they went completely blank.

  She pushed the trooper off of her and scrambled to her feet. She just stood there then, the gun in her hand, staring down at the dead man.

  She realized she was shaking. The gun in her hand trembled. She let it go, like it had just burned her, and backed away toward the U-Haul. Then she thought, no, she couldn’t leave the gun, not with her prints on it, and she scrambled forward again, scooping the gun up from the ground, then remembering the other gun and scooping that one up, too.

  And the trooper—what was she supposed to do with him? He was just lying there, splayed out on the ground for all to see. And there were people who could see, weren’t there? Yes, there were. The sporadic traffic passing back and forth for one. Plus there was the tire shop across the highway, and despite the fact its parking lot was empty, there was still a chance someone inside—a bored clerk, for instance—might have witnessed the entire thing and was right now calling 911.

  Move the body—that’s what she needed to do. She would have to grab the trooper’s arms and drag him from view. She would hate having to touch him after having killed him—killed him; it made her nauseous to think about it—but she knew she had no choice.

  She tossed the guns in the U-Haul, wiped her hands on her jeans. Steeling herself then, she approached the dead man, hoping that wherever John was right now, he was having better luck than her.

  seventy-one

  Like a cannon blast to my chest, the bullet sends me flying back to the ground. All my oxygen is gone. I can barely breathe. As I try to move, I’m distantly aware that I’ve let go of the gun. Where it is, I have no clue, but it’s not in my hand where it needs to be. Because right this moment the small, petite woman pushes the children aside to get to the back of the truck. She’s yelling at the children, but I can hardly hear her. All I hear is ringing. The world fades away, fades back, fades away again.

  I cough, or at least try to cough. This hurts my chest even more. But at least it gives me a chance to move again. In the movies and TV, they make it look so easy. You get shot, lie flat on the ground for a moment, then sit up. Maybe open up your shirt or jacket to reveal—voilà!—the bulletproof vest underneath. But this isn’t the movies or TV. This is real life, and getting shot in the chest, even with a bulletproof vest, fucking hurts.

  The ringing in my ears begins to fade. I can hear the woman still shouting at the children as she pushes past them, as she reaches the edge and jumps down onto the concrete floor.

  I blink, reach out as far as I can to my side. My fingers flex again, gripping air. Where is the gun? Where is the gun? Where is—

  The woman stands over me, her gun aimed at my face.

  I just stare up at her. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. Maybe Eli was right—maybe I can’t experience fear.

  A gunshot roars and I do blink, I can’t help it, knowing that this time the bullet hasn’t been stopped by the vest but has passed through flesh, the thin layer of epidermis that has protected me my entire life up until this point.

  I look at the woman and see her expression has changed. No longer is it cold and determined. Now it’s ... confused.

  That’s when I notice she’s bleeding. It’s coming from her neck, and for an instant I flash on Marta, my mother, hitting the floor of David’s office, staring up at the ceiling while I was stuck across the room, helpless to do anything to save her.

  The woman falls away from view. She hits the ground.

  I finally tilt my head enough to see one of the children—a little girl—standing only a few feet away. She watches me carefully, my gun in her hands.

  When she speaks, her voice is soft.

  “Are you here to help us?”

  Unable to speak, I nod.

  The girl doesn’t respond to this. She just nods herself. Then, seeming to remember that she has a gun in her hands which she just used to kill the woman, she quickly sets it on the ground before standing back up and folding her hands in front of her.

  The other children, I realize now, are watching me.

  I roll over, and the pain hits me again. I try to take a deep breath, and that hurts even more.

  Sitting up, climbing to my feet, staying on my feet—it all takes more effort than I care to give. I’ve been doored several times, have even been thrown off my bike and went flying through the air, but nothing has hurt like this. But now that I’m at least standing, I can do something. And what is that something? To save these kids, of course. These kids—that’s my purpose now. To save them. To get them out of here. But first ...

  “Where are you going?” the girl asks once I turn away and start toward the three steps leading up to the door into the building.

  I pause long enough to glance back at her and the rest of the children. How do I tell them? How do I explain that Eli is somewhere in this building, and that I need to find him? How do I explain that I’m going inside to kill Matheson?

  I open my mouth, start to speak, but then remember what Eli told me.

  Don’t worry about what happens to me. It’s the others that are the priority. It’s the others that you must save.

  Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to at least check to see what’s become of Eli.

  “Mister”—another child, a frail Asian boy—“please don’t leave us.”

  And at once, all thoughts about checking to see what has become of Eli or Matheson leave my mind. The children are what’s important now, and I need to get them out of here.

  The girl who saved my life is still standing on the concrete floor. I lift her up into the truck.

  “I’m going to drive us out of here, okay?”

  The children just stare back at me. A few nod.

  “I’m going to have to lock you in here for a few minutes. But it’ll just be a few minutes. Okay?”

  Again, a few nods.

  I reach up, grab the rope, and pull it down, bringing the door with it. I swing the lever closed. Then I turn away, start toward the front of the truck, when something about the small, petite woman makes me stop. She’s lying on her chest, her legs and arms splayed to the side. And it’s her left arm that catches my attention. On her wrist is a black watch. It’s tilted just right that I can see the small LED face ... and the numbers counting down.

  5:37 ... 5:36 ... 5:35

  I bend down and loosen the watch from her wrist. Standing back up, I stare at the numbers, at first not sure what to think about them.

  Then, all at once, everything clicks into place.

  They’re going to destroy this building.

  In less than six minutes.

  Which means I have to fucking hurry and get these kids out of here.

  Strapping the watch to my own wrist, I sprint to the front of the truck and climb up into the driver’s seat. Luckily the key is still in the ignition. The transmission is stick shift. I press the clutch, turn the key, and the engine rumbles to life. I shut my door, put the truck in gear, and
begin to ease it toward the open garage door.

  I barely get more than a few yards when the driver’s door is flung open and I’m grabbed and pulled from the truck. I hit the ground, hard. That pain I’d felt before comes back again, though thankfully not as strong. I blink and look up and see the guy from Ashley’s parents’ place.

  He’s aiming a gun at my face.

  “I just killed your old man,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fitting if I didn’t kill you, too.”

  Before he can, though, I kick him in the knee, then in the balls. He starts to go down, but it’s clear he doesn’t intend to do so without squeezing the trigger first. I’m rolling away then, just as the bullet strikes the concrete. I climb to my feet, crouch down low, and fling myself into the man, aiming for center mass. We go down hard, and I’m faintly aware of his gun clattering away, under the truck—which is still slowly moving forward, stalled but still in neutral.

  His hand grips my throat, squeezing tightly. I use my elbow on the man’s neck, then on his chest, knifing it as hard as I can. He lets go, wheezing, trying to push me off, but now I’m in a good position, holding him down, that I start punching him in the face, both fists going at once, bruising bone, tearing flesh, drawing blood.

  A part of me—the part that wants vengeance, that wants retribution for what this man has done to everyone I ever cared about—wants to keep going until this man is dead. I even look around wildly, searching for the gun, searching for anything I can use to end this man’s life.

  What my eyes fall on, instead, is the watch strapped to my wrist.

  3:57 ... 3:56 ... 3:55

  I struggle to stand up off of the man. I kick him one last time and start to hurry away, back toward the truck that is still drifting forward, when he grabs my leg, yanking it out from under me. I hit the ground, my chin striking the concrete. I try to kick my foot out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let go. He’s grinning back at me, blood on his face, between his teeth. He knows what the countdown means, and he intends to keep me and the children here to experience what will happen when the numbers reach all zeros.