Cold Reboot (Shadow Decade Book 1)

by Michael Coorlim

  A security guard dressed in a navy blue uniform and a bulky jacket stepped out from behind the reception desk, looking very much the part of the off-duty cop picking up a few hours on the side. Not sure exactly why that specificity jumped into my head... something about the way he watched me, the way he stood, the way he kept his hands near a non-existent holster. He just sort of had that 'cop' look about him.

  Whatever. I wasn't here for him.

  "Hi." I waved, not sure if he needed to see my ID or anything.

  "I'll take you up," he said, attitude somewhere between 'not friendly' and 'unfriendly.'

  I reassessed my 'cop' evaluation. He definitely wasn't someone who had to deal with the public very often, not in an official capacity, and he wasn't entirely at ease with me being here. He seemed almost wary of me, like he was worried about offending me or escorting me 'wrongly,' like this wasn't his usual job.

  Why was I so keen on sizing him up? His wariness made me uneasy, but he wasn't trying to intimidate me. Some people just aren't good with people.

  I followed him to the elevator bank. He pressed the call button, and one of the car's doors opened, waiting for us there in the lobby. To my surprise, he followed me in, sliding along the wall, hands behind his back.

  I stepped away from him, towards the back of the cylinder. I didn't like that he was here, with me, in this confined space, but I guess he had reason to. Wasn't like he had anything to do down in the lobby. What did he think I was going to do, though? Steal office furniture?

  Admittedly I could use a chair now that my place had been trashed.

  He stepped back from the door, shifting his gaze up towards the digital readout above it. I shifted sideways, away from him, almost instinctively claustrophobic.

  I let my eyes drift from the readout, down his back, to the chrome walls of the elevator. In its polished reflection I could see the guard moving, shifting, pulling something out from under his jacket.

  My breath caught and everything slowed down. I wasn't afraid. I was just suddenly... emptied again. The excitement I felt about the meeting with Greg, the victory I'd felt about leaving Baxter behind, even the small undercurrent of insecurity about my less-than-professional dress — they all vanished in a flash, and nothing flooded in to replace them.

  Nothing but the overpowering urge to move. I turned into the guard, slapping down on the barrel of the ugly snub-nosed shotgun he'd brought to bear, pushing it down, pushing it away even as I swung an elbow across and up into his chin.

  He fired as I connected, a spray of shot blasting a chunk out of the ablative tiles below us. It was loud, deafening in the confines of the elevator, almost a physical force assaulting my ears, but I kept moving.

  I yanked the gun up towards him, towards his chest, towards his chin, my free hand reaching for the guard and his trigger finger.

  He reeled back, half from the impact of my elbow, half in an attempt to keep control of the weapon. He was stronger than I was. Bigger. More massive.

  I was retreating. Not physically, but mentally, letting my body handle this. I'd never been in a fight; how did I know how to fight? I knew I was in shape, good shape, but there's more to combat than fitness, right?

  I'd acted on reflex. But where did the reflex come from? These curious intellectual thoughts were a calm counterbalance to the fury of our struggle, an academic concern, a sidebar.

  If I didn't get the gun away from him before he recovered, he'd overpower my grip. While I'd twisted to grab the gun he was still behind me, and I stamped down with the heel of my sneaker on his instep.

  He grimaced but didn't shout, didn't stagger, instead slamming the broad-side of the shotgun painfully into my chest.

  I stumbled back, and my feet slipped out from under me, landing to a sitting posture on the floor of the elevator, barely managing to keep one hand on the stock of his weapon. I snapped a foot out between his legs, not at his groin but instead at the vulnerable inner thigh.

  He went down to one knee, and I pulled the stock of the gun towards me, levering the weapon towards its wielder. It fired again, missed again, this time blasting a hole through the hatch in the ceiling above us.

  The elevator hitched to a stop. My opponent and I had the time to exchange one panicked glance before it fell.

  CHAPTER 14: A SHORT DROP

  Falling. I'm screaming, but no sounds are coming out. Instead I'm grabbing the guy, the security guy, and sort of climbing him.

  He's flailing, but we're both in a sort of free-fall so it doesn't really help. I'm on top of him. Everything is happening so fast and so slow. My hand goes into his pocket and I pull his ChicagoCard out. It's in a plastic case that makes it easier to handle. That's nice. I should get one.

  I thought elevators weren't supposed to fall? I thought this couldn't happen?

  It's hydraulic, the response comes in my own voice and takes no time. Hydraulic elevators are easier to disable.

  Who are you? I ask. There's no answer, of course, because it's all in my head. Nobody in here but us—

  Our rapid descent is suddenly halted by a sudden impact, and there's a mercifully short instant of explosive pain.

  CHAPTER 15: SUDDEN STOP

  Oblivion ends. Pain resumes.

  In the elevator. Hurt. Guard is dead. He broke my fall. Maybe my fall broke him. More likely it was the buckling of the elevator floor ripping him apart.

  Can I stand? I can drag. Every movement hurts. Every breath hurts. I'm dead. I died. Never got to say goodbye. What a dumb way to die. I'm sorry, Dad.

  Tough shit. Get up.

  No. Better to just die. This isn't my world. No job. No future. No friends. Easier this way.

  Get. Up.

  Elevator doors open a crack. Open enough.

  Put your back into it, pry them open.

  Blacked out for a second, but they're open.

  Good girl.

  Sirens. Not what I need.

  ***

  Outside? How did I get outside? Where — there's the river. Must be an alley behind the building.

  Loop is too public. Got to get out of here.

  Don't show them you're hurt. Don't let them see your weakness.

  Ain't got time for that shit.

  Damn straight.

  So many people on the street. Everyone's too busy staring at their cards. Be quick. Be quiet. Nobody sees what they don't want to see.

  CHAPTER 16: EVE

  "How many?"

  I had no idea what the girl was asking me. Or who she was. Or where I was. "What?"

  She held up a finger. "Just one?"

  I was sitting on a bench, hunched over, in a lobby of some sort. Each inhalation felt like cloud full of razors. "One what?"

  "Table for one? Or do you want to be seated at the bar?"

  I squinted. She was young, late teens, early twenties, wearing a burgundy blouse and black slacks. Hair done up in a bun. Logo on her shirt said "Adam's"-something. Oh, and apparently she was on a computer screen built into a podium.

  I was in a restaurant. "No I... I think I need an ambulance."

  Her expression didn't change. "Would you like to speak to a manager?"

  I nodded and shut my eyes. Movement was agony. I tried to focus on not groaning, not screaming, not passing out.

  "Ma'am?" A forced-calm male voice.

  I opened my eyes.

  A young man in his mid-twenties had dropped to a knee before me, concern on his face, wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt. "Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?" He'd either teleported in front of me, or I'd blacked out briefly.

  "Yeah I..." I winced. "Yes. I think I do. Hurts to breathe."

  He stood, face grave. "Just wait right there. I'll get help right away."

  I looked away from him, arms across my chest, out the door. Late afternoon, early evening. Not much time had passed. Building across the street was familiar... Dearborn Street Station? That'd put me in the South Loop. Where was I going? Why'd I stop here?


  My gaze shifted to the window, read the name of the restaurant. biR s'madA. Adam's Rib. Guess my auto-pilot had gotten confused, because I guess this was what broken ribs felt like.

  I tried not to chuckle. Too much like juggling a bag of broken glass in my chest.

  ***

  "Erica?" The voice, calm and professional, brought me around.

  Guess I blacked out again. I raised my head the best I could and opened the eye that didn't seem swollen shut. "How'd you know my name?"

  He tapped the lens over his left eye. "I'm Chris, I'm with emergency services. Do you know where you are?"

  I shook my head. "Ribs."

  "Do you know how you got here?"

  "She just walked in off the street." Manager's voice.

  "Sir, would you mind stepping back? Thanks." Chris the EMT. "Erica?"

  I looked at him. "Chris."

  "How do you feel? Where does it hurt?"

  "Everywhere. Most when I breathe. Headache." I paused. "Keep blacking out."

  "Okay I need you to try to stay with me." He began prodding at my ribs.

  Pain exploded through my torso. I winced, hissing in my breath.

  "Try to breathe normally. I know it hurts." He gestured to his partner.

  They were both wearing blue jumpsuits, and when his partner turned away I could see 'EMERGENCY' in white letters across his shoulders.

  "Are you with me?"

  "Yeah. You're handsome." In my defense, he was.

  "Do you have any medical allergies?"

  "No."

  "On any medications?"

  "No."

  His partner was returning with a gurney.

  "When was the last time you were in the hospital?"

  I thought. Thinking was hard. "Two nights ago. Got mugged. Left the emergency room because I didn't have insurance."

  His mouth drew taut. "This happened to you two nights ago?"

  "No. This is new."

  "Okay." He stood. "Dave and I are going to try and get you up and onto the gurney. It's going to hurt."

  "Okay."

  "Ready?"

  I nodded.

  He grabbed me by the shoulders, his partner at my hips, and they hoisted me onto a backboard as gently as they could.

  Pain burst out through my chest, and the blackness returned.

  CHAPTER 17: TRAUMA

  I woke up when they were wheeling me into the hospital. Everything was muted and distant, though how much of that was pain killers and how much was shock I don't know. Things were moving fast, and I had trouble keeping up with the crowd of nurses, orderlies, and doctors surrounding me. Not the EMT's who had brought me, though.

  "Airway's clear," a nurse was saying. "Broken ribs."

  Fingers came to my wrist and neck, taking my pulse. "Patient is semi-conscious. Pulse steady. Get her on lactated Ringer's and draw some labs." A doctor. "Move her to ICU 2."

  "She was here two nights ago." Familiar voice. "Involved in an assault." I recognized her, the pinch-faced nurse who was processing my emergency-room intake after Baxter and I were mugged. "She slipped out before I could get her information."

  The doctor checking my pulse looked up. "She's in no condition to slip out on you this time."

  The nurse reached for my purse. "I'll scan her ID in at the nurse's station."

  Pain ripped through my side as I lunged forward, trapping the nurse's arm in the straps of my purse and yanking her forward. She screamed as I twisted and rolled off of the gurney, dislocating her shoulder in the process. The pain when I landed was almost enough to overcome the pain-killers I'd been given, but I was moving again before the doctors could grab me.

  I was out of the hall and in a stairwell before I even realized that I was trying to escape.

  Why? Where was I going? What was I trying to accomplish?

  I staggered down the stairwell, without any clear goal in mind, propelled only by the urgent need to GET OUT.

  It hurt so much. I stopped at the landing, almost overcome by the pain, sorely tempted to just slump there and wait for hospital security to come get me. I was having some kind of shock-related episode, clearly. They couldn't blame me for that, could they? Maybe the nurse would sue me for assault.

  Not that I had any money. I needed to stop. I needed help.

  I kept going.

  What am I doing? I asked myself, hoping that that more-experienced voice would have an answer.

  If she did, she didn't share it.

  ***

  I slipped through the door at the next landing and into an underground parking lot. The pain from my exertion had long surpassed the pain-killers I'd been given. Every limping step I took was slower than the one before it. I couldn't go much longer without collapsing, and part of me was looking forward to the rest.

  There. The ambulance. If I could get my hands on some morphine, I could keep going and...

  And? And what, Erica? What's the plan here? We crawl away to die in an alleyway? Turn ourselves over to the cops? Or just shoot enough morphine to solve all our problems in one blissed-out go?

  I didn't have any answers for myself.

  The ambulance was empty but locked. I crossed to the driver-side door, wrapped my purse around my fist, and smashed in the window with a short sharp blow from the side of my fist.

  As if it was nothing, as if breaking into locked vehicles was par for the course.

  And who knows? These scars, these skills. Maybe it was.

  I let myself in and crawled into the back, almost collapsing on the padded bench. I took a moment to catch a few shuddering painful breaths before digging through the medical supplies, looking for drug codes that indicated opiates. I didn't know the new brand names for different meds, but the codes never changed.

  I'd just found some fentanyl when the ambulance's back door opened. Chris, fast-food bag in hand, stared at me.

  I stared at him.

  He looked at the gun in my hand.

  I looked at the gun in my hand. "Get in."

  He moved slowly, carefully, crawling into the back of the ambulance. "What are you—"

  "Shut the door."

  He closed it, careful to keep his hands in view even though I hadn't asked him to. He was calm, careful, and hiding his fear well.

  I gestured with the gun. "Get over here."

  "Okay." He slid past me. "Easy. Easy."

  "You take it easy."

  "No problem. Just tell me what you want."

  I held out the ampule. "50 micro-grams. Set me up."

  "That's—"

  "I don't want high. Just functional. Then I'm out of your way."

  "You want functional you need a chest compression and bandages. Your ribs are all busted up. Put the gun down, let me bring you back up to intake—"

  I chuckled, then winced, leveraging the gun at his face. "Checking in isn't an option."

  "Okay." He drew the dose of fentanyl. "You're the boss. But you're going to be hurting in a few hours."

  "Not your concern. You just set me up, and—"

  "IC-23, what's your 20?" The voice crackled from the radio up in front.

  We froze, and my grip tightened on the gun. "Is that you?"

  He nodded, mouth opening silently.

  "Check in."

  He slowly reached over into the ambulance's cab, pressing the transmit button on the radio. "IC-23. We're 10-50. Still at Northwestern." He glanced at me. "Dave had to knock off early to pick up his kid. I was about to head back to the station. Over."

  "We got a 10-47 and you're on site. Can you handle that before shift change?"

  I shot him a look.

  He released the transmit button. "It's a transfer. They want me to pick someone up, drop them off. I'll turn it down."

  An address blinked onto the ambulance's on-board computer. The University of Illinois Hospital. That was New City... not far from home. "No. Tell them you'll handle it."

  He frowned, but nodded. "10-4, dispatch. Over."

  "10-4. Pick-
up at the garage elevator. Over."

  I covered him with the pistol as he brushed the glass off of the driver's seat and shifted into it, turned the engine on, and pulled out of the parking spot.

  "You don't have to hurt anyone." His voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat. "I'll do what you say."

  "I know." I stared over his shoulder towards the garage elevator. The doors had just opened, revealing a uniformed orderly and a security guard standing next to a transport gurney. "Just play it cool."

  "Look, if you're in some kind of trouble—"

  "Save it." I winced at the harshness in my voice. "You seem like a nice guy. I'm sorry."

  "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

  I didn't have an answer. Why was I doing this? Not like I had any outstanding warrants. The police weren't after me. I wasn't in hiding.

  I had a reason. I had to have a reason. If I could only think straight, if only the pain wasn't so distracting... I needed to get home. I needed to think this out. Figure out what I was doing, what was going on.

  Chris stopped in front of the elevator doors, and I scrambled into the passenger seat, gun in one hand, hypodermic in the other.

  "Run and I start shooting." It was a lie. If he yelled for help, if he ran, I was done for. Too much pain to try and get away.

  He looked at me, held his breath, nodded, and opened his door.

  I watched in the side-mirror as he jogged over to the elevator and helped the orderly wheel a gurney over to the back of the ambulance.

  Chris glanced at the patient, a woman in her sixties wearing an oxygen mask, then up at the guard. "She a troublemaker, Dale?"

  The guard didn't smile. "Had an incident. Intake patient freaked out, broke a nurse's arm. We're on lock-down. Seen anybody down here?"

  I held my breath.

  "I just got back from lunch." The EMT opened the ambulance's rear doors. Together he and the orderly hoisted the patient into the back. He stopped the orderly from following him in. "I got it from here. You guys should get back upstairs."

  The orderly nodded. "Take it easy."