Afterlife: The Resurrection Chronicles

by Merrie Destefano

  It was all preprogrammed information. Embedded.

  Dizzy, I paused to lean against the wall, tried to figure out what the location tags meant. Maybe they were places I had been in a previous life. The City of the Dead was there too, the brightest of the bunch.

  Somebody put this map in my head for a reason. But who and why?

  Nausea forced me to buckle over again, to catch my breath.

  Pete. It had to be him. He must have been the other undercover agent in Fresh Start. Must have been the one who resurrected me, who told Neville where I was, who made the marker in my hand.

  A thunder of footsteps charging down the stairs roused me to attention. A few floors above me, sinister laughter. Gutterspeak. And one voice I recognized instantly. Like a jagged arrow, it ripped through my memories.

  Neville.

  He must have been waiting for my memories to resurface—

  But none of that mattered anymore.

  Because right now Neville and his bad boys were tromping down the stairs in my direction. And this wasn’t some serendipitous coincidence. I was a big part of the puzzle here.

  They were after me.

  I forced myself to a standing position and started running down the stairs. As fast as I could.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Neville:

  All around me the world thundered with laughter and energy. It felt like I had a thousand volts shooting through my veins, like me and my boys were all juiced up and ready for battle. Shadows sparked off the polished walls as we descended, luminous in our dark, pretty-pretty cocoons, ready to burst forth, ready to break through the paper-thin walls and earn eternal butterfly wings.

  Two more flights and we would be there. Floor 33. The suite that ’sitter shared with his Newbie.

  Legs pumping, feet stomping. Dusky, sweet laughter ringing. Soon the stench of decay would be wiped away.

  “Heres it is, boss.” Seth held the door open, a raw eagerness in his First-Timer eyes. The boy was a puppy, but he was well trained.

  I rewarded him with a grin and a cuff to the head, which the boy easily dodged. Then Seth stopped, cocked his head to one side, lifted a finger to his lips.

  I raised my hand for everyone to be silent.

  We could all hear it now. Somebody was running down the stairs, a floor or two below us.

  I nodded and pointed to Seth. “Go checks it out,” I said. “Then meets us back up on the roof.”

  The boy took off, a hound after a fox, loping down the stairs, two at a time.

  Then I slammed through the open door, led my boys over carpeted floors.

  “Quiet now,” I reminded them. “And loads yur darts. We’s almost there.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Chaz:

  I slammed on my brakes and my car screamed in resistance; it jerked, skidded sideways, and then shuddered to a stop. Right in the middle of the intersection. I threw the door open and ran across the street. A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk and I couldn’t see what was going on. I tried to get past them, but almost immediately a popping and glittering band of virtual-reality crime-scene tape appeared, pushing all of us back.

  “Babysitter! Let me through!” I yelled as I shoved my way through the stunned crowd.

  It felt like we were covered in mud, like some gritty glue held all of us in place and we could only move in slow motion, one spare inch at a time. In my mind I screamed for everyone to get out of my way, but I don’t think those words ever made it out. One part of me was moving faster than I ever had, while another part was stuck somewhere in the past, still back inside the car, overwhelmed with astonishment and terror.

  I was a frozen blur, moving and stationary in the same instant. Wishing that what I had seen wasn’t true. Dreading what I would discover as soon as I pushed through this eternal moment of now that refused to bend.

  Two mugs flashed into position in front of me, wearing a couple of those new experimental VR skinsuits, the ones with the more realistic faces—although all these faces looked the same.

  “Hold it right there, Domingue.” A hand sizzled in front of me, hit me square in the chest and held me in place. This was new for VR. Normally I would have been able to push my way through. Until now. I recognized the voice.

  Skellar.

  “Stay right where you are,” he said, his voice fading in and out before it finally stabilized. Apparently the voice modulators on this skinjob weren’t up to speed yet. “We have to scan for evidence before we can let you in.”

  I tried to see past him. Something fluttered on the ground, like the wing of a bird. Dark, torn fabric. Part of a dress.

  A woman. The person lying dead on the ground, about ten feet in front of me, was a woman.

  Please don’t let it be Angelique, I prayed.

  I looked up. Thought I saw someone standing on my balcony.

  A team of VR mugs surrounded the body now. Behind me, somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. The real goons would be here in a minute. For all I knew, one of them could be Skellar in the flesh. He could be wearing a VR suit in the back of a van, projecting himself here.

  I was done waiting. I pushed my way back through the crowd. Whoever was on the ground was already dead.

  And whoever was responsible was probably up in my suite.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Russell:

  I watched that blasted dog video, over and over. Until it turned into a vintage Twilight Zone episode. Until both dogs trotted off into the dark night. Like a pair of invincible hounds of hell.

  I think Marguerite may have said something, but whatever it was, it didn’t register. It wasn’t until I heard Pete cry out that I realized something was going on.

  “Hey, don’t opens that door—”

  I glanced at Pete, saw a startled expression on his face. Then his knees buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor. The look of astonishment froze on his face.

  “What the—” I swung around, instinctively shielding Isabelle.

  The front door hung open, and a gang of gutter thugs had slithered into the room. They moved with strange, jerky movements, sometimes holding still, sometimes magically appearing halfway across the room. A veil of color slid between us, a glittery orange, and then an awful panic rolled over me, the realization that all this was beyond my control.

  “Marguerite—” It was all I could say, every syllable exaggerated and stiff.

  My skin prickled and I caught a whiff of something honey-sweet.

  She was beside me then, taking Isabelle in her arms. “I’m sorry, Russ,” she said.

  Then I saw a yellow-feathered dart sticking out of my arm, felt my muscles melt like butter. I sagged to the floor, not as quick as Pete. Maybe they gave him something stronger.

  “Puts him in a chair and ties his arms.” An apocalyptic voice. Malevolent. Foreboding. Familiar.

  An army of hands lashed me to a chair. Trails of light followed robotic creatures as they darted across my line of vision. Had we been invaded by humans or machines? I forced my thoughts to stay focused on Isabelle. Turned my head to follow her, saw her cradled in Marguerite’s arms.

  “Daddy, I wanna see Daddy!” she screamed, squirming to get down.

  “Go aheads. Lets her down. Lets her say good-bye.” That voice again. This time connected to a face. Murky green eyes, bald head covered with metal studs. Neville. My personal path of destruction. I wasn’t surprised to see him. I had been dreading his arrival.

  A glowing Isabelle scampered across the room, light flowing from the tips of her fingers and hair. “Daddy,” her voice echoed as she burrowed her face in my chest.

  “We needs to talk.”

  I glanced up, saw Neville guiding Marguerite to the balcony. The two of them were alone out there. He was telling her something and she was arguing with him, a look of bewilderment on her face—

  No.

  I couldn’t say anything. My vocal cords wouldn’t respond to the command I was screaming.
Terror flooded my heart, a tidal wave that rolled over me, over Isabelle. Fear and anger filled the room, a crest that surged, that swallowed all hope.

  No, Marguerite, don’t go out there with him, don’t trust him. I didn’t mean it, I would never hurt you, I couldn’t—

  But they weren’t arguing anymore. He glanced at me, lips creasing into a wicked grin. Then he turned back to Marguerite, lifted her in his arms.

  And dropped her over the edge of the balcony.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Angelique:

  One of Neville’s gutter boys was after me, I could smell him. Still a floor above, but he was gaining. I could hear him jumping down the stairs, two and three at a time. I caught a glimpse of him when I glanced back. Tall and lanky, young, dressed in black, his face laced up with black stitches across the cheekbones. They all had to take the mark somewhere on their face. Usually across the forehead, something they could cover up with their signature black bangs. But this kid put his gutter mark up front for the world to see.

  He had a point to make.

  And I was probably part of it.

  I wondered if Neville had taken the time to tell him that I should be kept alive. That I had information they needed. I saw a white stick hanging loose in the kid’s mouth. Darts. This punk was loaded.

  But what was he carrying? Sleep or death?

  I ran, downward. Matching my pace with his. Jumping down steps, swinging around the corners. I knew how to escape, how to fight. My body was new and fresh and it responded to my training memories better than I had anticipated. Still, he was armed and I could tell that he was gaining on me.

  I was going to have to do something unexpected.

  Level 21.

  I yanked the door open, raced over the carpeted hallway, felt him behind me, like he was my echo, like he was wearing my thoughts. I zigged back and forth, knowing that this would slow me down, but I couldn’t take a chance on getting hit with a dart. I slammed my hand on the elevator button as I passed. Just then something shot past me, an invisible hiss. He’d taken a shot at me and missed. Exactly what I was hoping for. I collapsed in a tumble, fell into a clumsy half-rolled position on the ground, one arm slumped over my head, my face turned back toward him, one eye open just wide enough to see the startled look on his face as he slowed down. He approached cautiously.

  Good. Keep coming.

  I could tell he was looking for the dart.

  Closer, almost here.

  His right foot landed six inches from my face. Perfect.

  I waited until he leaned forward, until he stretched his hand toward my still and crumpled body. I struck, in that moment when he was slightly off balance. I spun, tucked and rolled, swung one leg up, knocked him to the ground. Jumped to my feet, then kicked him in the chest. Heard the wind swoosh out of his lungs, saw his eyes flash closed in reflexive pain. Saw him curl like a spider on its back, legs folded inward.

  Then I ran. Toward the open and waiting elevator. Toward the lobby and freedom.

  I heard him groan behind me as I ran, thought I heard him struggle to his feet. He was stronger than I’d expected. Something flashed in my brain as I almost made it through the doors. A familiar odor hung in the air.

  The decay of gen-spike flesh.

  I swung inside the elevator door, punched the DOWN button, crashed my back against the wall, chest heaving, mouth open. The doors started to close when I heard a horrid sound.

  A high-pitched whispering whistle, air being pushed back as something shot forward, something flying so fast it was almost invisible.

  It struck me in the thigh, the tuft of feathers shivering on impact.

  I glanced up, saw his grinning face appear in the narrow space between the closing doors. Already I could feel it. Numb. Heavy. Like I was being plunged in icy-cold water.

  My legs sagged beneath me, refused to bear my weight. The elevator plummeted downward and I collapsed, helpless, on the floor. One last comprehensible thought before a gossamer gray veil clouded everything.

  Sleep or death?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chaz:

  The hotel lobby was a scramble of bodies; arms and legs and startled faces. It was as if everyone knew something horrible was coming and they didn’t want it to get too close. They turned away as I ran past, as if that could protect them. As if I were the hurtling bullet, the fast-advancing plague.

  As if I wore the mask of death.

  Just like the crowd outside, I had to push my way through a slow-moving herd, human flesh the boundary between me and my goal.

  The elevators. Across shining marble floors, between Grecian pillars. A pair of twin doors stood closed, yet expectant, like the lid on a wicked jack-in-the-box, ever ready to spring open and reveal some predatory monster within.

  I ran. Skidded to a halt in front of the doors, punched the UP button with my palm. Glanced impatiently at the stairway door to the left.

  Should I wait or should I run up the stairs?

  There are times when your brain moves faster than your body, when you see your life five times quicker than it really happens, when you see the beginning and the end, almost simultaneously. Then it loops around again, this time with a different, and usually much worse, ending.

  The loop kept playing through my head, and each time the stairs seemed more logical. I could scale those steps in a few seconds, I could be halfway there before the elevator doors opened, I was wasting time. And yet, some part of me knew this was a false conclusion. There was no way I could run up thirty-three flights and beat the elevator.

  I had to wait.

  And waiting was killing me.

  I prayed it wasn’t killing anyone else at the same time.

  In that never-ending moment, as I stood waiting, my mind tumbled over all the safe words I had heard throughout my life: words like love and hope and faith. Every single one seemed to cause a sharp, jagged disconnect, to force me to continue to search for the perfect word, the one that would stop the tumble, the one that would stop the inward implosion that was going to drive me to madness if I had to wait another second.

  Adrenaline slugged through my body; I leaned forward, willing time to push through the envelope, to reach the next second.

  Waiting for the elevator doors to fly open.

  Hoping that one word would finally win the lottery and stop the tumble.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Neville:

  Marguerite flew over the edge of the balcony, a blackbird with dark wings that fluttered in the breeze. She was free now. Free to die and live again. Free to build another fake family from the broken bits and left-over pieces of the sous-terrain société. And this time I wouldn’t be part of her genealogy. I was tired of pretending that I cared, tired of listening to her incessant whine.

  As if the blue-blooded elite deserved to complain about anything.

  She seemed to be looking up at me as she fell, her mouth a small circle, a silent yet expressive O.

  I laughed, quietly, chest shaking from a recent gen-spike, thoughts focusing then unraveling slightly, like they always did whenever I reached that mountaintop high.

  She was at the bottom now, so far away that she looked like a tiny doll. A crowd formed quickly around her, insects flocking to an open wound.

  “Speeds it up, my puppies,” I called to my team as I walked back inside from the balcony. “The mugs will gets here in about two minutes.” Bodies lay strewn throughout the suite, eyes open, not moving. Strapped to a chair, Russell tried to hold his head up, to keep his eyes focused while his daughter clung to him.

  “Who gots the Newbie?” I asked.

  Black-clad street warriors glanced at one another, then shrugged. “She ain’t here,” one ventured. “We hasn’t seen—”

  I struck the man down, glared at the others. “Where she at? Who gots her?”

  “F’true, boss, we couldn’t finds no Newbie here.”

  I latched onto Russell, yanked his head forward. “I only a
sks one more time.”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Russ answered, his words slurred.

  “Yeah.” I grinned, then let my hand slide down to Isabelle’s shoulder. “Ya hasn’t seen her.” I lifted the little girl into my arms. “And maybe ya won’t sees this little one again, neither.”

  “No, don’t touch her!”

  “Ya knows what I wants. The research and the dog. The key to immortality. I gots to has it.”

  “I told you, it’s gone—”

  I nodded toward the door. My dark troupe began to slip out, shadows melting. “And I tolds ya. ’Bout the things that would happen if ya didn’t keeps yur end of the bargain.”

  Sirens whined in the distance. It was time to leave.

  “Ya gots twenty-four hours, Domingue. Then the little princess here,” I cradled Isabelle, kissed her forehead, “she gets painted to ride the flyin’ horses.”

  I swung the child under my left arm, carried her around the waist, ignored her screams. I jogged out the door and down the hallway, toward the rooftop where the helicopter waited.

  I sang as I ran. It was a dangerous song, usually heard in back alleys flooded with moonlight.

  A song from the Underground Circus.

  Wind from the roof whipped through the stairwell as soon as the door swung open. The chopper stood ready and waiting, blades slicing blue sky, energy pulsing. The team of gutter punks charged forward, heads down, a black running stitch across gravel tapestry.

  A man stood at the edge of the open helicopter door, one hand pressed to his left ear, blind eyes searching. His right arm hung withered and useless. He was one of the many who could only afford black-market jumps; his clone body was slowly atrophying, pulling him back into the grave he had tried to escape.