FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller

by Darren Wearmouth

  “I’ll live.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Flames raged from the corridor. Dark gray smoke swirled around the ceiling. Luke cupped a hand over his mouth and headed for the fire escape. He passed the portable restrainer cannon at the end of the aisle and kicked it over.

  Perry and Emma waited below the elevated fire escape with their rifles at the ready. Both locked Luke in their sights as he approached through the smoke.

  “Out, out, out,” Luke shouted. He followed the team up to the swing door, pushed his way through, and gulped in breaths of fresh night air. Carl, Perry, and Emma leaned against the wall, coughing, spluttering, and wiping their eyes.

  Moonlight brightened the powerless compound.

  The generator building’s doors hung open, though Luke couldn’t see anyone around the small brick structure, and it had no signs of damage. He scanned along the PCC perimeter fence to the gate. Its red barrier pointed skyward, and bullet holes peppered the windows of a white security booth. He lifted his radio. “Helen, location update?”

  “My remote isn’t working. We’re back at the generators.”

  “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “It’s just Walter and me.”

  “Sabotage the thing. It’s only a bloody back-up.”

  “We can’t get past the bars to open the internal door,” Walter said. “It wasn’t meant to be locked.”

  Luke checked his watch and the time had moved to 11:12. A man walked under one the streetlights on the quiet road leading to the PCC’s gate. “Looks like our pilot’s here. Forget the back-up.”

  “We can’t,” Helen said. “The generators kicked straight in and their systems are rebooting. I need two minutes.”

  The group had to circumnavigate the main building to reach the landing strip. Fighting in the open against superior numbers of claycops, who had no fear of a virtual death, was the quickest way to failure from here.

  Luke turned to Perry. “How long have we got?”

  “Blast doors seal off the damaged area. If the generators have already started, less than a minute.”

  “You three help Helen and Walter. I’ll grab Frank from the gate and meet you there. Make sure everyone’s reloaded.”

  They turned and jogged across the grass toward the generator building. Luke headed for the gate and hoped Helen discovered a solution before the claystations booted.

  A slim old man, dressed in wooly sweater and trousers, inclined against the barrier and smiled. “So you're the man?”

  “Luke Porterfield,” he said and gave a single firm nod. “Glad you came.”

  “Frank Tweedle. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  The perimeter fence buzzed with electricity and red lights on top of each post flashed on. Frank stared into the distance, and his smile disappeared.

  Luke looked over his shoulder at the PCC. Light streamed out of hundreds of windows on the top four floors. Two large circular searchlights on the roof tilted down, casting thick beams of light across the ground.

  Chapter 30

  To say Helen’s faulty remote control had complicated matters was an understatement. The group had lost the element of surprise, and unless she fixed the problem, it wouldn’t be long before claycops streamed out of the PCC. With Timetronic back in control of the building and aware of the threat, Luke knew the possibility of retreat had vanished as quickly as a cheap television on Black Friday.

  The time changed to 11:15 but no longer mattered. If the team hadn't taken off by the midnight shift change, they'd either be captured or worm food in waiting. The only course of action was to drive the plan through to completion.

  “Perry claimed you’d be ready,” Frank said.

  “You know the old phrase: no battle plan survives the first contact?"

  “Yeah, do you know the new phrase: whoever said the pen was mightier than the sword had obviously never met the Lynch mob?"

  One of the searchlight beams raced across the grass between the main building and perimeter fence and stopped at the barrier. Luke grabbed Frank and pulled him behind the security booth.

  The old man crouched with his back against it, lifted his sweater, and drew two chrome plated revolvers from his belt. “Well, we’re committed now. I just hope you’re as good as they say.”

  “I hope you’re as good as you look. Stay behind me to the generator building. You’re our ticket out of here.”

  “I can hold my own. Don’t think I’m scared of Lynch’s gorillas?”

  “I’m sure you’re not, but I can’t fly.”

  Frank cracked a thin smile. The searchlight swung to the left and probed an area in front of the PCC’s front entrance. Smoke continued to billow out of the fire escape, along with the alarm’s monotonous pulse.

  No cops had appeared yet. Luke guessed their systems had to boot after the restoration of power, which gave Frank and him time to reach the generator building. He shouldered his rifle and set off at a fast walk, conscious a man in his seventies followed in his shadow.

  Frank puffed his cheeks and moved at a wooden half-jog; the same way a lot of old men did when attempting to show they still had vitality.

  The other searchlight sliced through the darkness, across a row of twenty armored carriers, and focused on Emma and Perry, who stood by the side of the generator building's open doors. Both edged around the wall and out of its fierce glare.

  Luke turned as he closed in, maintaining his aim on an entrance at the rear of the PCC, and he left a trail of footprints in the dew soaked grass as he backed toward the rest of his team. Frank entered the building first and he followed him inside.

  Walter, Helen, and Carl hunched around parts of the remote control. A steel barred gate, secured by a combination lock, blocked off a passage that cut in two directions at the end.

  “What happened to your other two?” Luke asked.

  “Both stunned at the gate,” Helen said. “Cops dragged them away after we headed here.”

  “This is our problem,” Walter said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the gate. “We can’t reach the fuel cells without opening it. Without the bomb, we're screwed.”

  “Please tell me you’re fixing the remote?”

  Helen shook her head and tossed a small black component to the side. “The RF module’s frazzled. It’s never happened before.”

  “Is that the only way to detonate?”

  “There’s a button on the side. No timer …”

  “Who’s volunteering to blow themselves up?” Luke looked at each one of them in turn and nobody replied. “Just as I thought. We head straight for the landing strip, using the carriers and anything else we find on the way as cover. Two teams; one fires to suppress any flak coming in the opposite direction, the other moves. Short spaces at a time.”

  Walter stared down at Frank’s revolvers. “Where’d you get those?”

  “You don’t know everything about Zone Seven. Get to me to a rotorcraft and I might spill the beans.”

  “How about you tell me now?”

  Luke stepped between them. “I don’t care about your unofficial rules. You might not have a zone if we don’t switch on and get our asses moving. Helen, Emma, Perry, and you on one team. Frank, Carl, and me on the other. Let’s go.”

  Emma poked her head around the door. “Guys, something’s coming from the north. It might be drones.”

  “They won’t deploy missiles,” Carl said. “It’ll risk destroying their power.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Luke said.

  “What about the bomb?” Helen asked.

  “Leave it. We’ve half a mile to cover.”

  Luke headed outside and led Carl and Frank to the first of the armored carriers, parked on a large concrete square. They took up a covering position in front of its hefty rear bumper and aimed along its sides.

  After Walter briefed his team, they ran past and crouched around the third vehicle.

  Four distant red lights, in a ho
rizontal formation, approached in the star filled sky. Luke had no doubts Timetronic drone operators would use missiles even though they’d be destroying their own installation. Striking the London Eye for propaganda purposes showed how far they were prepared to sink.

  The double doors at the rear of the PCC punched open, throwing out a shaft of yellow light. Six armed cops, dressed in dark blue coveralls, darted out and lay on the grass at a distance of just over a hundred meters. Their muzzles flashed, and bullets hissed through the air and clanked against armored plating.

  Walter's team collectively opened up, and red tracer rounds sporadically zipped toward the PCC. Two cops transformed to particles. The remaining four fired prolonged automatic bursts, peppering the carriers with an inaccurate hail of lead, confirming Luke’s suspicions about their ability in a firefight. He ducked back behind the bumper. “Ready to go?”

  Frank ignored him, stepped between two vehicles, and held one his revolvers forward like an Old West gunslinger. Bright flames blazed from the end of his barrel as he blasted six shots.

  Luke grabbed a fistful of his sweater and yanked him back. “I’m not telling you again. Stay close and follow my lead.”

  “Don’t you want my help?”

  “I want you alive. Leave the covering fire to Carl and me, and stay out of sight.”

  Frank grunted, thumbed his cylinder release catch, ejected the cases, and reloaded. Luke loved his spirit, but the broken remote control had already messed up things up enough; a dead pilot would deliver terminal blow to their plan.

  The roar of jet engines increased overhead.

  Luke knew their chances of success faded with every minute that passed. He sprinted to the front of the tenth carrier and tried unsuccessfully to open the driver’s door. Two rounds cracked against the reinforced glass windscreen to his right, leaving small white shatter marks. He dropped to his belly, rolled under the chassis, and returned fire at a cop directly in front of him. The third round sent the man’s senses back to physical reality.

  Carl crawled by his side and emptied a full magazine toward the PPC, taking care of another and leaving only one cop remaining, who scrambled to his feet and headed back inside. The door slammed behind him, arousing Luke’s suspicions about what was coming next. He edged out from under the vehicle, searched the sky, and the drones roared over the perimeter fence.

  “Stay here and keep your heads down,” Luke said to Carl and Frank.

  Both crouched by a carrier’s chunky central wheel.

  “Move,” Walter shouted in the distance.

  Footsteps thumped across the concrete as the other team charged to their next position. One of the drones split from the formation, banked, and powered over the generator building.

  Luke raced to the back of the carriers. Walter, Helen, Perry, and Emma reached the final one in the line and spread around the back of its cabin. Directly overhead, a missile detached from the drone’s left wing and a flames jetted from its tail.

  “Take cover,” Luke shouted and dived to the ground.

  The other team stared in his direction, failing to react to his command. A thunderous explosion ripped through the air, and a plume of smoke gushed into the sky.

  Small pieces of debris showered Luke’s body, and a high-pitched tone whistled in his ears. He strained to see through the dirty gray haze, hoping to catch signs of movement.

  Walter let out an agonizing cry.

  The drone continued overhead and returned to its formation. All four circled the front of compound in a wide arc and swept back toward the generator building.

  Smoke drifted away on the breeze. The last carrier had taken a hit to the side, and its back doors hung open, likely forced out by the blast. Flames licked from its partially collapsed roof, and two deathly still bodies lay at the back of it.

  Luke approached while keeping his focus on the drones and the PCC. He stood over the charred remains of Perry and Emma and swallowed hard. The chances of success had just decreased to a wafer thin level, but this action needed avenging, and a drone operator had made his personal hit-list, joining Lynch, Meakin, and Owl.

  “Over here,” Helen said in a quiet voice.

  She sat between the last two carriers and cradled Walter in her arms. A sharp piece of metal protruded from the left side of the big man's stomach, and he wrapped his blackened fingers around it. Luke knelt by their side.

  “We’re finished,” Helen said.

  Walter grimaced and bared his bloodstained teeth. “Not yet.”

  Engines revved from behind the PCC. Three tracked vans, with metal grilles protecting their windows, rumbled around the side of the building, cutting off the route to the landing strip. Six claycops followed each one and aimed their rifles at the damaged carrier as both searchlights on the PCC roof swung down and focused down on the group.

  Frank and Carl joined them in the narrow gap. After seeing Perry and Emma, coupled with their desperate situation, it was no great surprise that both men wore gloomy expressions—any normal human would.

  Luke’s hands trembled with rage and he increased his grip on his rifle. He refused to go out like this and give Lynch the satisfaction of removing all of his problems in one violent swoop.

  “Drop your weapons,” a voice boomed from a speaker on top of the central van. “Put your hands in the air and show yourselves.”

  Carl edged past Luke and knelt in front of Walter. “Boss, are you okay?”

  “Does it look like it? I’m done for.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Helen said and turned to Luke with tears in her eyes. “We need to do something. Anything.”

  “You’ve got one minute,” the voice said. “Resist and die or face a fair trial.”

  “They don’t know the meaning of fair,” Frank said and raised his revolvers. “I’m too old to think about developing a transport tan.”

  Luke blocked him before he did anything stupid. Going down in a blaze of glory against programmable matter wasn't a sensible solution. The problem was, he couldn't think of an obvious way forward.

  Walter grunted and used his rifle to haul himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasped, and flopped against the side of a carrier. Carl grabbed his arm to stop him from falling.

  “Take it easy,” Helen said. “We’ll find a way.”

  “There’s only one way,” Walter said. “I’m setting off the bomb.”

  She shoved Carl out of the way and wrapped her arms around him. “You can’t. I won’t allow it. We’ll give ourselves up. I’ll cut a deal with Lynch.”

  Walter forced a smile and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I'm a goner. Finish what we started and make this world a better place.”

  He turned and limped toward the back of the carriers. Helen attempted to drag him back, but he broke free of her grip. “I’m doing this for us. When I get close, draw their fire.”

  “Walter—”

  “Don’t say it. I know.” He kissed on the cheek, whispered something in her ear, and looked over her shoulder. “Good luck, guys. Carl, The Mega Dive’s yours. Don’t change the theme or I’ll haunt you.”

  Carl bowed his head.

  Helen returned along the gap, slumped against the carrier and buried her head in her hands. Luke decided against comforting her, as he did with her grieving father in front of the empty wicker chair at Clifton Hall. No words he said could ease her feelings, but more importantly, Walter had given them a chance.

  “Thirty seconds,” the voice said. “Don’t expect to be stunned. It’s gone too far for that.”

  “Frank,” Luke said. “Let us know when Walter’s about to break cover.”

  “You got it.”

  Luke dropped to his forearms and knees and crawled to the carrier's front wheel. From there, he had a view of the generator building as well as the vehicles and cops in the opposite direction. He loaded a fresh magazine and flicked his change lever to automatic.

  Carl wriggled to his left side. “He’s a great guy, you know?”
>
  “Walter? That’s pretty obvious. What he did for Helen; what he’s doing now. It’s down to us to make sure his sacrifice worthwhile.”

  “Balls of steel. I’ll make sure he’s remembered.”

  The vehicle engines increased in pitch; they collectively advanced, along with the cops to within fifty meters.

  Helen moved up to Luke’s right. She peered through her sights and curled her finger around the trigger.

  “Now,” Frank shouted.

  Luke sprayed the middle van with an automatic burst. He switched back to semi and took single aimed shots. Helen and Carl’s rifles cracked from either side of him. The vehicles jerked to a halt and the cops scuttled around the back of them.

  Walter neared the generator building, clutching his stomach and hobbling at a slow pace. Rounds thudded against the bricks around him, his right leg buckled, and he collapsed.

  “I can’t watch,” Helen said.

  “Don’t,” Luke said. “Keep firing.”

  The cops must have sensed what was happening, and concentrated their fire on the generator building. Walter dragged himself toward the door. A red patch grew on the thigh of his jeans where he’d taken a hit.

  Luke realized he needed to present another target, drawing fire and giving Walter a fighting chance. He crawled from under the carrier, scrambled to his feet, stepped into the open, and emptied his magazine into the closest vehicle before spinning back out of view.

  Walter made it inside the door and disappeared from view. “Helen,” his voice crackled over the radio.

  Fire spewed out of the building, followed by an ear-splitting boom. The explosion ripped through the roof and demolished the front wall, throwing dark lumps of debris and smoke into the night sky.

  A light blue glow radiated from behind the back of the vans.

  The lights inside the PCC flickered off.

  In the distance, the drones lowered and flew in a tight circle.

  Helen stared at the ruins of the generator building and closed her eyes.