It meant he had an even greater understanding of the machines lurking behind the door, their capabilities, and those behind their release upon an unsuspecting world.
He broke into a dead sprint.
A roaring sound rose to a crescendo, and he looked up as he ran. Why was he looking up, though? Nothing capable of making such a noise ought to be in the sky; machines couldn’t really fly, could they? He thought of his presentation on his podcast the day before—it seemed like months ago—and realized that even with the visual proof and his revelatory words, he’d not really believed it himself. Just another way to reveal the evils of the megacorps, and if the words were false, he’d been certain that other truths would come to light instead. But now?
Now he knew machines could fly. He’d seen them before. He had a strange sensation he’d actually ridden aboard one of the craft.
His eyes found the source of the crescendoing sound: twin metal cylinders arcing down from the sky. The word rose to his mind, unbidden: missiles. Flying bombs, primed to detonate upon contact, or perhaps via other triggers. His mind completed the flight path and identified the target, and he knew he needed to move. He focused on his own path and refocused his efforts on running.
The missiles slammed into the Jamison & Associates building. He felt the vibrations of the impact as much as he heard them, listened as fading sounds of metal and wood splintering reached his ears, the sounds of the missiles burrowing ever deeper into the bowels of the building.
Right toward the Bunker, home of a growing swarm of activated Ravagers.
He’d gotten ninety yards away when the missiles, now deep below ground, finally exploded.
He knew the powerful reverberations would follow, but the shuddering ground still missed his feet as he pumped his legs forward. He stumbled and fell to the ground, felt the fabric tear in his pants, felt the pain as the concrete beneath him scraped away skin. His mind screamed, demanding that he stop and soothe the sharp pain, but Wesley knew he had no time for rest due to such minor injuries. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the dark red dots forming on the concrete as blood dripped from the small gashes in his hands, and dashed away again like a sprinter off at a starter’s gun.
He wished he ran for something so trivial as a medal.
He spotted a water fountain and another memory swelled. Water. They’d recognized the danger of an accidental—or intentional—outbreak of Ravagers destroying water supplies, and the coding left water a natural repellant for the deadly machines. He skidded to a halt and slammed his foot against the pedal on the ground, triggering a small stream of liquid from the mouth of the device. Wesley cupped his hands, twitching as the cool fluid touched his scraped hands, and dumped handfuls of water over his head until his clothes and skin were drenched.
As a deterrent, it wasn’t perfect. But he’d take the chance for any advantage he might gain.
His odd behavior garnered the attention of those working in the nearest buildings. Many had left their offices, startled from daily activities and meetings by the loud roar and muffled explosion, and more had followed them outside after the reverberations from the exploding missiles reached them.
The smoldering ruins of the Jamison & Associates building drew their attention.
The horror made Wesley’s odd behavior even more inexplicable. Why would a man stop and splash water on himself in the face of the horror behind him?
A few knew him by name and reputation, having encountered him at local eateries. Wesley heard the voices as he ran by, with phrases like “crackpot” and “that crazy Cardinal” reaching his ears. Most seemed more concerned by what seemed a highly localized earthquake, asking others they encountered outside from neighboring buildings if they, too, had noticed the earth shake. A few suggestive jokes echoed in Wesley’s ears as a means of explaining the unstable ground, but most were genuinely using the time outside as an opportunity to piece together explanations of both the shaking ground and the thorough destruction of Jamison & Associates building. Wesley heard the shouts of shock and horror as realization dawned of the likely death toll.
For those who knew Wesley, who knew where he worked, the obvious questions arose. Was there a connection between the crazy man splashing water all over himself, the minor earthquake, and the complete destruction of Wesley’s place of employment?
If the earthquake had been so powerful and localized that it had destroyed a single building and left others standing—shaking, yes, but standing—then one had to at least ask if that earthquake had been triggered by something man-made.
Only a crazy man would do something like that.
As the connections formed in many minds, Wesley began sprinting again. Away from the destruction. Away from the scene… of the crime, perhaps? His crime?
The sight of Wesley running away from the smoldering ruins made the connections stronger. The onlookers told themselves that Wesley ran because he knew something, perhaps did it himself, perhaps had caused an accident that triggered the ground tremors and the destruction of the building. They told themselves that Wesley had answers he didn’t want to share. Two men broke free from the gathering crowds and ran after Wesley, shouting at others to stop him. Most exiting the buildings Wesley ran past, though, were suffering from severe cases of morbid fascination at the devastation to the west, and paid them little attention.
But it only took a few to slow him down.
Wesley could see his scooter parked next to a building seventy yards away. He’d parked outside today because the weather had been nice, eschewing the comforts provided by garage parking. That decision had saved his life for the time being, but only if he could—
Three men stepped in front of him. The looks on their faces told him they’d not done so to get a better view of the devastation. They’d heard the shouting and had moved to block his further progress. Barely slowing, Wesley did his best to evade them. The chase lasted only seconds. It didn’t help that Wesley rarely ran more than fifty yards and that the quarter mile he’d already covered left him choking down heaving gulps of air as a stitch formed in his side. The long ago beat down after his attack on Sheila Clarke further hampered his escape efforts.
The three men surrounded him, joined seconds later by the two who’d initiated the chase.
“Why are you running?”
“Beautiful weather,” Wesley gasped, crouching slightly and bending at the waist as he struggled to refuel his lungs. If he’d not already slathered water all over himself, the sweat pouring from every pore in his body would have done the trick.
One of the original chasers pointed back toward the destruction. “Looks like you were running from that. Any reason you’d do that?” The tone wasn’t threatening, but the implication was there.
Wesley took two more gulps of air before straightening to his full height. “I worked there. I went out for a run. I heard the explosion and saw the building collapse. My friends were all inside.” He looked up, silently thankful for the moisture on his face. It made it look like he’d been crying. “I couldn’t bear to look at the place and know that all of my coworkers—”
Another man frowned. “You were out for a jog?”
Wesley nodded. “That’s what I said.” He tried to sneer, to make the man’s comment seem ridiculous.
“In those clothes?” The man’s eyes dropped to Wesley’s feet. “And boots? Who runs in boots? You some kind of Special Forces wannabe or something?”
Wesley cringed inwardly at the oversight. He scrambled for an excuse for his clothing choice. “I like to challenge myself.” Well, it was the best story he could devise in that moment.
The first man shook his head. “Your story makes no sense.” He glanced at those surrounding Wesley, noting the nods of agreement. “In fact, it makes so little sense, I have to wonder if what happened back there”—he pointed toward the ruins—“was something you did.” He held up his hands. “An accident, perhaps?”
Wesley started to respond when he saw something
that chilled him to the bone.
A small bit of black ooze on the building behind the first man.
Oh, hell no.
He realized what had happened. The missile strike and subsequent explosions had propelled bits of debris outward from the site. That debris included Ravagers, effectively pollinating them across other buildings in the area.
That meant he had even less time to escape than he’d previously believed.
Time to make something happen.
His eyes flicked around at the five men surrounding him as he stood. “Of course it was an accident. What else could it be?”
Then he lowered his shoulder and charged the man nearest his bike.
three
Deirdre Silver-Light
She’d thrown herself atop the bed once she realized the magnitude of what had happened. Deirdre’s tears flowed freely. She’d made mistakes—terrible, terrible mistakes—and now payment for those mistakes had come due.
Roddy was no fool. She’d known that since the day she’d met him. Yet she’d changed her behavior around him, enough so that he’d figured out what she’d done—at least the part involving Stephen. He’d planted listening devices based upon her suspicious behavior, and heard her unintended confession. He’d reacted as he might be expected to react in these circumstances—leaving her behind to deal with the hurt until he returned.
In so doing, he’d unknowingly signed her death warrant.
In a fitting bit of irony, she’d die via the machines she’d recommended for use. And it wouldn’t be just any batch of machines. It would be through the cache of machines she herself had primed for activation only hours earlier, when she’d expected to be gone by this hour.
She lifted her face a few inches off the surface of the bed and wiped the tears from her face. A cool wash of air from the climate control system grazed her skin in a gentle caress, as if trying to tell her all would be well. But she knew better.
Deirdre felt a warm, rough hand on her bare back. “Dee? Why are you crying?”
Stephen’s touch snapped her out of her moment of despair and self-pity. Having accepted her inevitable fate, she’d made the decision to fight to the end. That meant getting herself fully suited up, and getting Stephen in his suit as well. She rolled over and sat up, facing him, and fixed her eyes upon his. “We’re in trouble. A lot of trouble.”
“Why?”
Start with the part that would make most sense to him. Deadly invisible robots weren’t the best lead-in to a conversation. “My husband had this room bugged, and—”
“So what?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded at his cavalier attitude. “Are you insane?” She realized that he didn’t yet understand the magnitude or the impact Roddy’s learning of the truth had upon her husband, and how his reaction to this knowledge impacted their ability to live. To a degree, though, Stephen was right, though not for the reason he’d intended. He thought his words meant he wasn’t afraid of Roddy. She realized they’d need to survive long enough for Roddy’s killing expertise to come into play. But there was little time to explain to Stephen why that was the case. She needed to motivate him in terms he could understand. “He knows about us, Stephen. He’s a former Special Forces soldier. He could kill both of us in half a second without trying.”
Stephen snorted, puffing out his chest. She had to admit that he looked formidable, though she knew even a powerful man like Stephen had no chance against Roddy. “I highly doubt that. Besides…” He glanced around. “Mr. Special Forces isn’t here, is he?” A lascivious gleam filled his eyes, which dropped from her face to her scantily clad figure. “Speaking of which… perhaps we should take advantage of that absence.” He arched a suggestive eyebrow. “It’s not like he’s going to walk in on us, is it?”
If only it were that simple. Clearly, the fear-the-returning-husband tactic wasn’t working. Time to ramp up the stakes. “We’re going to die, Stephen.” She bounced up from the bed and unzipped her Diasteel suit, neck to leg, and sat back down on the bed. “You need to get that suit on.”
Stephen, who’d watched her movement with hungry eyes, looked puzzled. He glanced around, his eyes landing on the bedroom leading to the closet where she and Roddy stored all of their clothing. “What suit?”
He thought she meant that he should don one of Roddy’s suits. She shoved her leg inside her own suit. “The Diasteel suit you brought here.”
“The one…” His voice trailed off. “Oh, I get it. This is some kind of game. We’re going to dress up first, and then…”
She fought the urge to sigh. He wouldn’t understand. Only one option. “Something like that. Put the suit on. Survive our imminent deaths. Celebrate once our safety is ensured.”
“Sounds… dangerous.” He grinned, and Deirdre struggled to avoid sighing… or screaming. He’d not taken her words of warning seriously.
Deirdre pushed her second leg inside the suit. “Very. Go get the suit on, Stephen.”
He nodded.
Deirdre rolled over to get to her knees before standing up, her back to Stephen. She pushed her left arm inside, briskly wriggling the fingers inside the gloves at the end of the sleeve, before turning to check on Stephen’s progress.
She nearly knocked him over. “What are you… Stephen, this is serious!”
He hadn’t moved, merely stood and watched her work her way into the suit. He stepped close and slid a hand around her waist. “Change of plans. Let’s celebrate first, and dress in the crazy costumes later.” He dipped his head in closer.
Deirdre put both hands on his chest and pushed him away. “I don’t know what I need to do to make you understand. This building…” She paused. “Did you feel that?”
He looked amused. “You didn’t push me hard enough for me to feel it, Dee.” He moved closer again, trying to grab her covered hand to pull the sleeve off. “You can stop playing hard to get now.”
She tried to back away but contacted the bed, sprawling out as she fell. Stephen laughed. “Now you’re getting the idea.” He grabbed the boot covering her left foot and began to pull.
The building shuddered. Stephen, still focused on trying to remove her clothes, lost his balance and his grip on her boot, stumbling backwards. His eyes widened in surprise.
Yep, he’d felt that.
Deirdre took advantage of her reprieve. She rolled over in the heavy suit to the far edge of the bed and stood, putting distance between them. She had to get his mind on the imminent danger. “If you’re interested in dying, Stephen, and killing me at the same time, keep doing what you’re doing. If not? Then get into the suit. Now.” She pushed her left arm back into the sleeve and pushed her left foot down, back inside the boot.
Stephen, apparently interested in their mutual deaths, leaped upon the bed and sprang off the mattress at her. Deirdre stepped aside and avoided the contact. He recovered his balance quickly and, not burdened by a heavy suit, closed the gap between them quickly. He grabbed her arm. “This isn’t like you, Dee. There’s no point in playing games and no point in sneaking around now. Your little Special Forces boy toy knows about us now, so—”
His dismissiveness toward Roddy angered her. Deirdre felt her face transform, from one of fear to one of anger. She ripped her arm free from Stephen’s grip, then spun around and slammed the point of her elbow into the side of his head.
Stephen collapsed to the ground, his eyes glassy.
Deirdre gulped and stared at him. Had she killed him? She’d never killed anyone before today, and now she might be a serial killer. And she didn’t even know the current death toll following the Ravager activation. She stared down at him and her face softened, and she shook her head with regret. Given where his mind was—and he’d shown nothing was going to get his mind focused elsewhere—there was likely little she could do to save him now. She’d need to get into her own suit and get down the stairs and out of the building before the collapse began, assuming it wasn’t already too late.
She kept her
eyes on him, and her sense of frustration and despair grew, limiting her ability to finish donning the suit.
She’d wanted to save one of them, just one of those they’d condemned to death, a means of soothing her aching conscience. She’d put forth the idea, she’d offered it with a ruthlessness toward the pursuit of their goals, and her father had looked proud of her for the first time she could remember.
It was only later that she allowed herself to recognize the enormity of what she’d helped put in motion. And by then, as Oswald Silver had reminded her only hours earlier, it was too late to stop.
She wouldn’t be able to save Stephen. Oswald had been right. Stephen’s antics here would have the added effect, potentially, of keeping her from escaping the consequences of what she’d wrought. His inability to recognize that her change in tone meant true danger probably meant that Stephen had proved those who’d deemed him unworthy correct in their judgment.
It also meant her judgment, that Stephen was worth saving despite the rulings otherwise, was incorrect. She’d likely pay for that error in judgment with her life.
She wriggled her right arm into the sleeve and zipped the front of the suit up, securing the outer flap to cover the vulnerable fastener. She looked around and lumbered into the secret closet, found her helmet, and secured that as well. The airflow was steady. The air itself was a bit dry and stale, but it was breathable.
She saw Stephen’s suit there as well. She stared at it for a few seconds before grabbing the suit and helmet and dragged them to Stephen, dropping the items next to him. “Get dressed when you wake up,” she whispered. After a fractional second’s pause, she added, “If you wake up.”
Deirdre turned and lumbered out of the bedroom, racing toward the apartment door that would lead her to the elevator and stairwell. She’d try the elevator first if for no other reason than speed.
Detonate (The Ravagers - Episode 2) Page 2
