Wielding the wrench in one hand, I draw a long swing and bring the heavy tool across Bob’s face. Bones snap and crack, he goes down, but in a dying spasm he pulls the trigger, blasting walls and shattering windows.
I dip low and prepare for the next assailant. He steps in, targeting where I was standing only seconds before. He fires into empty space, sizzling just overhead, followed by crackling that raises the hair on my scalp. I clutch the wrench with both hands—my injured arm screams, begging to hang limp and recover. Too bad, we’re in this together, me, the mind, and the body’s every limb. Survival of the whole.
With the wrench near the floor, I swing it in a wide, sweeping arc, propelling the tool with all my might. The crude weapon smashes into Bob’s ankle with a shattering crunch. Take that, you bastard! That’s what you get for shooting at me.
Bob reaches for his injury with both hands, as I knew he would, leaving his weapon to drop within reach. Howling in agony, he topples in the doorway for the next thug to trip over. Good, another step closer to fair.
No need for the wrench any longer, and no time for long good-byes—time for a real weapon. I drop the wrench and snatch Bob’s rifle.
Clinging to a wall, I creep through darkness, deeper into the room. I’m not far when another Bob enters and starts blasting. The goon is firing every direction like I might be a spider hanging from the ceiling, and he must take into account any possibility.
I dodge a scatter of energy beams and duck behind a workbench. The fireworks provide some light, enough to examine the rifle. The simple device is shaped as a slender rectangle, constructed from an odd material. It seems metallic, polished smooth with a deep blue sheen, but the thing is surprisingly light. A small nozzle projects from one end, and other than a trigger below and a few dials along the topside, the weapon is little more than a thin stick. The dials are likely set to destroy, based on the room’s condition. Giant craters scar the walls, many blasted clear through, open to the night outside, some even bigger than the windows. A few more like that and there won’t be any walls.
Enough of Bob’s ridiculous blasting, it’s driving me nuts, not to mention the unintelligible hollering like he’s some crazed lunatic. I sight over the workbench and squeeze the trigger. The whizzing begins, painfully loud. The beam strikes Bob in the chest and knocks him to the floor.
His blasting ends but not for long. Another Bob steps in and takes over, attacking the room as he hollers, just like the last idiot. What’s with these guys? They could shoot me but all they’re doing is tearing the room apart and making a bunch of racket. Fine, you’re next. Another squeeze of the trigger, the whizzing begins, and Bob number two goes down. Look at that—I’m a pretty good shot.
Silence is brief. From a doorway across the room, another Bob enters—he has a clear aim. The whizzing comes fast, I drop to the floor, roll on my back and dodge the blast. Hair on my forearm rises as the beam passes ever so close, but does miss, and strikes a nearby workbench, blowing it to bits scattered across the floor, sizzling and crackling. That was close—that could have been scattered bits of me sizzling.
The whizzing repeats, followed by an incoming beam. I roll across the floor dodging a barrage of scorching blasts. My injured arm throbs with pain, the bandage is coming loose, and that means bleeding to death. Not so urgent as my new crisis—one false move and there won’t be anything to bleed from.
I scramble behind a tall metal cabinet. Blasts glance the unit and reflect snaps of thunder, but to my relief, fail to destroy it. I keep low and peer around.
Across the room are the two victims of my blasts, or rather—should-be victims. One gets up and brushes off his chest as though my assault did nothing more than inconvenience him. How does that work? Next he reaches out to his buddy and helps him up, then they straighten out their jackets. I’m not so fond of this stupid rifle. I may need that wrench back.
I’ve got to figure out how this thing works, particularly, how to increase the damage. The current settings must be stun, and even that has little effect. This must work like a volume knob, clockwise means more. Okay, every dial all the way to maximum. This time they’re toast.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Someone might get hurt, including yourself.”
* * *
I whirl around to find a fellow crouched in a corner. Masked by shadows, his features are unclear, but I’m quick to notice his rumpled brown jacket, unlike the cheesy plastic kind the Bobs wear.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
The stranger creeps out of the shadows. He looks fit, not particularly young, hair shorter than mine but not cropped like the Bobs, and disheveled like he just woke up. He has the rough start of a beard, a few days unshaven. A fellow loser?
“If you fire that thing at full power,” he says, “you might kill them. Sure, after you blow out an entire wall and the building collapses. But just think, all that will probably kill you, too.”
I have to admit, he could be right. Given the destruction at a lower setting, full volume might take out an entire wall. And without a wall, yes, gravity tends to bring things down.
“Okay, but why doesn’t it work on them? It tears the walls apart, but all it does is knock them over.”
“Well sure,” he says, like I should already know. “It’s electromagnetic. Microwaves, you know. Like an oven, just more concentrated. It shakes up molecules, that’s all.”
“Look, buddy, that doesn’t explain how it blows up walls but not them. It doesn’t do a damn thing. They just get up and brush themselves off.”
“It’s the frequency,” he says, oddly calm in light of the blasts streaking across the room. “And the target, that’s all. In a body, molecules are loose, but in something hard like concrete, they’re rigid. At the right frequency, a chain reaction begins, and all the shaking makes it shatter. See?” He points to a wall just as a blast strikes and sprays debris. “Solid objects can’t take it and explode. Bodies though, they can deal with it. But it does hurt, I know, so please, stop pointing that thing at me.”
He reaches out to the rifle and directs the barrel to one side. He may be trustworthy. He seems reasonable, unlike the Bobs, and he talks like a real person, not like a robot on drugs.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
He crawls toward the rear of the room, the farthest end from where the Bob brothers are busy having target practice. Though reluctant, I follow. He nudges a door open and we slip through, then descend a stairwell without attracting any attention. He has stealth, I admire that. Perhaps together, we may get out of this mess. Wait a minute—we? We are getting out of here?
“Who are you?” I ask.
He says nothing, and continues down the steps. Despite my growing concern, I keep close behind. When we reach the last step, he turns around.
“I’m Jared. What’s your name?”
I expect him to already know my name, though I couldn’t say where the notion comes from, and I’m not comfortable disclosing my notions to a stranger.
“Me? I’m just the janitor. I was minding my own business, you know, cleaning up the dust, and these boys started shooting at me.”
“Carl, that’s stupid. We know you’re not the janitor.”
“We? Who is we?”
He chuckles. “You know, you and me.”
Upstairs, the blasting continues, a ruckus so loud it reverberates throughout the building. The Bobs don’t give up easy, and they’re awfully noisy in their effort to make sure I’m good and dead. Except, to be dead . . .
“Jared, if this thing doesn’t hurt them . . .” I indicate the rifle in my grasp. “And it’s the same weapon they have, it won’t hurt me either, will it?”
He grins like he knows too much. “I never said it doesn’t hurt, Carl. I’m sure it would knock you out for a while if nothing else. It can be quite painful, trust me.”
I don’t like it when someone uses the phrase trust me. It usually means they intend to screw me.
He swings around and continues into a short hallway. I follow behind, keeping a safe distance, but close enough to make sure this weapon doesn’t miss.
From the hallway we emerge in a large room on the lower level. Countless shelves fill the space, but no products fill the shelves. Well, unless thick layers of dust could be called a product. A product of something. In one corner is a large roll-up door where trucks might load materials. From the looks of the place, it seems little has been manufactured, delivered, or otherwise processed around here for some time. It’s like a tomb.
Jared points to the loading door. “We can make our way out over there. Go get it open.”
“I think you should open it.” I keep a ready finger on the trigger.
He shrugs. “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” He turns away and walks toward the door before I have a chance to act further. I didn’t even have to threaten him with the rifle, he agreed all on his own. Have I misjudged him? Of course I have. Here’s a guy offering to help, and what am I going to do? Shoot him? No wonder I have no friends.
As he walks away, the racket upstairs ceases. Did the Bobs give up? This realization is unsettling—if they’re not upstairs tearing the room apart, where are they?
“Hey, Jared, what happened to the goon patrol?”
On his way to the loading door, he turns back. “The what?”
“You know, the guys upstairs. The goons trying to kill me.”
He laughs. I guess he thinks it’s funny. He continues to the loading door and wrestles with the latch. “Them?” he says, and glances over his shoulder. “They’re not trying to kill you. They were just keeping you busy until I got here.”
Huh?
He gets the latch loose, then turns around and grins.
“I’ll take care of making you dead.”
* * *
Chased by a gang of thugs is one thing, an understandably terrifying circumstance. But having someone pretend to help you, only to stab you in the back when you turn around—infuriating!
Jared has sealed his fate, he will die. If not by this ineffective weapon, then by these murderous hands clamped around his neck. But then, he could be lying about the rifle. He has lied about everything else. At the higher setting, the strange weapon will erase him from existence, and he knows it.
I target the bastard and squeeze the trigger. The whizzing begins, terribly loud but with some delay. A sizzling beam erupts and instantly strikes, knocking Jared off his feet and crashing into the roll-up door.
However, the full-powered blast has not vaporized him as I had hoped. At least, not yet. Vicious spasms escalate until his body becomes a tremulous mass of flesh, tortured by intense vibrations, the frequency so rapid he almost appears translucent.
The spastic vibrations change frequency, getting slower, though he still wiggles like a bowl of gelatin. He struggles up onto one knee, and steadies himself with one hand. The intensity fades and he stands upright, undulating like the reflection in a wavering crazy-house mirror, and I can see him—grinning? Does this torture not hurt? He said it would.
Still pulsating, he speaks and it sounds funny, like he’s underwater. “That won’t do any good, Carl.” He opens his coat to indicate a small box clipped to his belt. “I have protection.”
Jared must be a villain, with that idiotic urge to explain everything, that my weapon will do no good, how he’s unbeatable, gloating over the glory of it all. Typical.
“This is a wave canceller,” he says, holding out the little gadget. “It matches the frequency of that weapon and makes it useless. Too bad you don’t have one.” He laughs like he’s so smart, and I’m so stupid.
The swell of fury grows—I won’t be laughed at any more than I’ll be double-crossed.
Considering what he said about the building, I get a new idea. My turn to be a cocky smart-ass. “So tell me, Jared, is that magic box of yours going to make this building any lighter when you’re buried under it?”
The loading door rolls up and crashes at the top. Of course, waiting outside is an army of Bobs. So that was the surprise. Jared darts into the mob and scrambles to escape. I quickly target above the loading door, squeeze the trigger, and the whizzing begins. The pitch is torturous. What I need is ear protection.
A blistering pulse strikes and spreads out like a scatter of lightning bolts. The shuddering intensifies and the concrete explodes—most of one wall and half of the ceiling. Chunks become deadly projectiles that take out a good number of Bobs, though plenty remain unscathed, scrambling past the carnage of fallen comrades. Weapons blazing, the survivors advance. I duck for cover in a corridor, clear of their whizzing blasts.
A low roar grows in volume. I spy around the corner to see an entire wall is gone, leaving behind twisted steel beams and the second floor unsupported. Concrete slabs thunder down and entomb the Bobs. That’ll teach you to mess with me. Except Jared was right. The avalanche will bury me next.
Crashing debris nips at my heels as I scramble deeper into the warehouse. The monster is at my back and I have no escape, except—a window. Not that again. I charge ahead and dive into the fragile pane, shatter past and soar out with a spray of glass. I land on the sidewalk, roll off the curb, and the weapon slips away. Over my shoulder, the building is coming down. Where’s the rifle? No time. I hustle across the street as chunks whack me from behind, adding incentive to move faster. This battered body resists, like the damn thing is wearing lead boots. Get moving, body. I’m trying to save your poor ass, too.
A blast of dust overtakes me on the other side of the street. I turn around, wave off the obnoxious powder, and witness the final consequence of my efforts. The building pours in on itself, a quake of tumbling debris then a billowing plume, slowly rising into the still night air. The cascading roar subsides, and the last stray particles trickle down through the rubble, finding their way to the bottom.
Dust covers me from head to toe. The fine layer clings to the blood leaking from the crude bandage, and the mixture creates a messy, mud-like goo. If only it was raining. The rain has ceased for a rare moment, and dawn is breaking, getting lighter at the horizon. Today’s first light brings a lively color, pink and orange behind the clouds.
This brief moment each day is my favorite. The colors in the sky are beautiful. I yearn to witness a sky full of these hues, I dearly long for that. As I drift off, indulging in the marvelous sight, the pains torturing this body fade. I should be collapsing now from the damage done this night, but the beauty of this vision is intoxicating. If only the dreamy experience would last forever.
“Like I said, too bad you don’t have one of these.”
* * *
I twist around and there he stands, calling attention to the little box clipped to his belt. Similarly doused by a generous layer of dust, he has also escaped the building’s collapse. He does possess the gift of stealth, which I might admire, but under the circumstances, I cannot bring myself to admire anything associated with Jared.
He holds a blast rifle point-blank, perhaps the same one I lost along the sidewalk. There is no time to react.
“You can’t win.” He unleashes a smug grin, the trigger clicks, and the whizzing begins.
I am filled with horror. If only I hadn’t daydreamed about the morning sky. If only I had run the instant I hit the sidewalk. If only . . .
Regret is useless. Nothing can save me now.
A sizzling beam emerges from the barrel, and a wave of terror converts every perception to slow motion. Like a thousand hot needles, the assaulting energy unleashes a sadistic dance that penetrates deep into every muscle, a hideous torture as I am burned alive—from the inside out. Bright flashes obscure all vision, lightning storms so intense there is nothing else to see, and bombarded by unbearable booming thunder, there is nothing else to hear, only this body’s every molecule slamming into every other.
A furious vibration rattles my bones. Jared failed to mention the weapon’s effect on bone, and only now does the truth strike—bones are
much harder than the rest of the body. Perhaps not as hard as concrete, yet apt to shatter just the same. A terrifying thought—my entire skeleton disintegrating, leaving behind slush held in a bag of skin. A horrible end.
Every circuit is shutting down, the pain is too great.
Sight dissolves, sound fades.
I feel no more, I am done.
All is black, all is numb.
Chapter 2
I am floating through space. Outer space. Countless points of starlight dot the blackness. The sensation is wonderful, gliding across an expanse of unrestricted nothing, a taste of total freedom. Alone in a calm, there is nothing I must do. I may never grow tired of this experience.
But it can’t be right. My blood should boil. My body should explode. Yet here I am, serene, and without fear. The reason—I am without a body. There is nothing to me. I simply exist, surrounded by endless space.
An immense pull summons me. My bodiless nothing is drawn into a narrow space, long like a straw, that stretches to infinity. Captured by the mysterious force, I am taken away and accelerated to an immeasurable velocity.
My journey ends when a solid object crashes into me. Or I have crashed into it. In either case, the result is pain, which only a body could provide.
Everywhere is dark, thick smoke, I can hardly breathe. Dread strikes—smoke means fire, feeding this burning temperature. I must not die by fire. Beyond the obvious fear of burning alive, there is more—I must avoid fire at all costs.
Another person is present. She is looking for something in a cabinet. Scattered remnants of memory surface. There was a battle, and we are traveling to join others, but our vessel has suffered a malfunction.
The woman hurries across the compartment, darts back again, and stops when she notices me. Her eyes are mesmerizing, tender blue with an electric dazzle. I sense another kind of heat emanating from this beautiful woman. I’ve made a mistake, and she’s unhappy with me.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 3
