by Nat Kozinn
I roll over to hack up some truly horrific loogies, which express the whole rainbow of disgusting colors the body can produce.
“Gross,” Karen says. Then she stands up, aims her gun, and fires three shots. I hear two bodies hit the ground. “Are you healed yet?”
“I’m on my way,” I grunt. “It was four minutes. Not fast enough for you?”
“They said you healed liked a Regenerator. Most Regenerators I’ve worked with would have healed by now, if not the internal injuries, then at least all the surface scrapes and cuts.”
“Sorry to disappoint, I’m not a Regenerator. I don’t know what I am, but I heal quickly compared to anyone who isn’t a Regenerator.” I say as I pull a Manna Bar out of a pouch on my belt. I unwrap it and eat it whole. “And my new cells are always hungry.”
“Jesus, one of those once lasted me a whole week on a mission.”
“A mission. Huh? Aren’t attorneys generals or whatever the plural is, usually lawyer types? And why have you worked with Regenerators?”
“Did I say that?” she asks, then stands up and shoots once to drop another body.
I peek up over the edge of the canal. There are eight dead Walters; she’s been busy. I know they aren’t people, and I know that they only live six months, best case scenario, but it’s still hard to watch human-shaped things get exterminated like vermin, even if they are empty shells of humans.
“You’re a hell of a shot for a Juris Doctor.”
“And you like to show off how smart you are. Go ahead, show off. The jig’s up anyway,” she says and waves me on.
“You’re in the CIA,” I blurt out.
She taps her nose.
“Awesome,” I say with a grin.
“What about this is awesome? The car crash, flying death from above, being attacked by mindless drones?”
“Those parts aren’t awesome. But working with a secret agent on a mission from the President? That’s every little boy’s dream come true.”
“Yeah, hah,” Karen says, her eyes shifting around.
Then she stands up takes aim into the distance. It takes her three shots to hit her target.
“This isn’t going to work. Every time I shoot one, two more see it and come over. I don’t have enough bullets.”
“Let’s keep going down the canal,” I say and push myself to my feet.
We have to walk in a rather disgusting-looking stream. The water is stagnant and smells like an old shoe.
“Could I get a piggy—” Karen says, but then I can’t hear her because she’s flying though the air.
She lands in the brush on the far side of the canal and cries out in pain. I’m actually glad I can hear her agony. It means she’s alive.
She was thrown by a six foot five, three hundred pound human specimen who would make any scouting director for any professional sport salivate, if the specimen wasn’t balding and middle-aged. That’s an Athlete Different for sure. He looks like my old partner Victor, but with the head swapped out. And he doesn’t have a Mark of Differentiation on his hand; he’s from the Non-Assisted Area.
“Working with the G-Men. Shame on you,” the man says. His voice thick with a slow, drawn out accent I can’t place.
“You’re a criminal. Shame on you,” I fire back.
“And I’m going to be a rich criminal soon.”
“What are you going to buy? The country is in shambles,” I say, being careful not to yell. I want to keep talking as long as possible. That’s just more time to heal.
“For now. But that’ll sort itself out, it always does. And when it blows over, we’ll still be rich.”
“How are you getting rich? Who’s going to pay you?”
“The Government,” he says, smiling smugly.
“They sent me here to stop you, and nobody told me not to kill. What makes you think they’ll pay you?”
“Because we’ve got a whole bunch of guns, and the army is going to need all they can get to go toe to toe with those idiots on strike. After you fail, the army will realize it’d be easier to just give in to our demands. Now most of my friends want to stop you the one way. But they’re new to this and don’t know how it is. They don’t know that in a scrape, even winning can hurt like hell. I say it’d be easier to do it the old fashioned way. Cut you in. What do you say? How’s a fifteenth share sound? Ohh wait, you got Lizzie, a fourteenth.”
“You think you’ll be able to spend any cash they give you?”
“We aren’t asking for cash. We got a whole list: gold, silicon, cadmium something. I don’t know. We got a Big Brain, and she worked it out. She says it’s all stuff that’ll be easy to fence and holds its value. She says we’ll be millionaires once all the banks and stuff open back up.”
“Is she the leader?” I ask. I hold my breath after talking, making sure to give my half-functioning lungs a chance to pull as much oxygen from the air as possible. I flood my blood, dangerously raising my blood-oxygen level. My muscles are going to need every drop of O2 they can get their hands on in short order.
“I guess. At least when we are all willing to listen. Does that mean you’re in?”
I furrow my brow to pretend I’m deep in thought. Then after what seems like an appropriate pause for reflection, I talk.
“I’m willing to discuss it. I’m going to want a bigger share though. I’m worth it,” I say slowly, as though the words were only arrived at after careful consideration.
“There you go!” he exclaims and slaps me on the back. He hits hard, and I don’t think it was an accident. “I’m sure we can work through the numbers. The fact that we had to set a whole trap just for little old you proves you’re worth more. I’m sure everybody else will see it that way, even if they grumble a bit.”
“The Walters don’t get a share?” I say with a little laugh. “They were pretty surprising. How many of those do you have?”
“We stole a whole train car full of ’em,” he says, but I don’t think he liked my question.
He starts walking off, out of the canal, and towards where he threw Karen. I can imagine where this is going, and it isn’t good.
A Walter runs by my new “ally,” pointing a handgun at me and pulling the trigger over and over again even though the clip is empty. They used up all their ammo.
“I wish Eddie had been able to save one of the trucks. We’re going have to bring one of the Telepaths around to round ’em up. It’d be easier with another ride, especially since Lizzie ain’t going to be helping.”
I knock the gun out of the Walter’s hands. It is too unnerving. The confused creature doesn’t know what to do now. I race after the Athlete.
“Is that going to be a problem? Did Lizzie have a lot of friends?” I ask.
“Maybe for the new guys, but the rest know it comes with the territory. Besides, you didn’t kill her. She did,” he says and points to Karen Grant.
I can see a portion of her femur sticking through her trousers on her left leg. Her right arm looks like it’s broken too. She’s crawling with purpose though, heading straight towards her gun, which is about fifteen feet way. She’d need twenty more minutes to get there at her current pace.
“Whoa, there. We can’t have you getting your hands on that. You’re a killer,” he says.
He bends over and picks up the gun. Then he rears back and lets it fly. It lands a quarter mile away.
“Gavin, what the hell are you doing!?” Karen demands when she sees me behind the Athlete.
“The Beast Slayer here saw the error of his ways, ain’t that right?”
“Well, I like living,” I say to sell the charade.
“Big surprise. I told them you freaks always stick with your own kind,” she spits out.
I don’t think Karen buys my betrayal, but she’s a good enough liar that I can’t tell. Either way I don’t like hearing it.
“You get to take your ‘I told you so’ to the grave. Any last words?” the Athlete asks menacingly.
I suck the last bi
t of oxygen I can into my blood to prepare for what’s coming. It won’t be enough.
“Yeah, screw you, freak,” she spits out.
“Very original. Gavin, I’m sure you know talk is cheap. I’m gonna need you to make a show of good faith. You can see where I’m going with this…”
I do know where he’s going with this. That’s why I cock my fist and let fly a beautiful punch, even if it is a bit of a cheap shot.
Cheap or not, the Athlete was ready for it. He dives backwards out of reach, does a small roll, and pops back up to his feet.
Priority one is to move away from Karen. If we fight near her, a poorly placed step from either of our heavy feet could spell the end. And I don’t want to give him any leverage to use against me. I turn and run, even though I’m using precious oxygen in order to do so.
The Athlete gives chase. We go a good half mile until we make it to a nice flat spot, and I stop and turn around. I get my adrenaline flowing and my heart rate up. I need to end this quickly before my injured lungs take their toll.
I’m stronger than him. He’s a weaker version of Victor, and Victor was slower and weaker than I am now. I can win this fight, unlike all those sparing matches with Victor.
He comes at me, hands up. He’s leading with his left foot and holding his right hand up to guard his chin. He’s no heavyweight champ, but he’s sparred before, just not against someone like me.
I focus on the tendons and muscles around his shoulder. Blood rushes to his deltoid, compressing the muscles and pulling his shoulder back. I know a punch is coming. That’s why I dodge his first jab, and his second jab, like they are nothing. He pauses and then comes at me again. He fakes like he’s going to throw another jab—well, he thinks he’s faking, but the deltoid tells the unfiltered truth. They tell me he’s trying to trick me and instead will throw a right hook. Just before he does, he drops the hand that was guarding his chin, leaving me a perfect window for my own quick left uppercut.
My blow knocks out two teeth. I follow it up with two quick right hooks to the body, the second of which cracks one of his ribs. Before I can land a third, he rolls backwards, somersaulting himself to safety while sporting a grimace from the cracked rib.
Then he waits for me to charge. He knows he’s not as strong, so maybe now he thinks he can beat me with speed. I play along, lunging at him, but he dives out of the way, escaping my outstretched arms. Turns out he might be actually quicker than me now right now. I am fast enough to catch him under normal conditions, but those include functioning lungs. I’ve used up all the excess oxygen in my bloodstream, and my half-healed lungs are not refilling my drained O2 coffers. The end result is that my muscles are losing functionality, and I’m slowing down.
I keep after him, but I start to measure my pace, not really putting my heart into my lunges. I’m not going to catch him until he decides to turn around and fight. That isn’t his plan though. He’s leading me back to the spot where I first spotted the Magnet, back where I spotted all the Walters, back into a trap.
“Rocky, get down!” somebody yells, and my Athlete friend hits the deck.
There’s a whistling noise, and I turn around to see one of the escort trucks flying straight toward me. There’s no time to get out of the way. The car slams into me. My thick body distorts the metal, making a pocket that traps me against the side of the flying vehicle. I end up pinned to it as it travels through the air. The car bounces twice before I’m finally able to pull myself free from the unintended hitchhike.
I land and lay there for a second, taking deep, full breaths, or the best I can manage at the moment. I hear footsteps and get to my feet. There’s a Walter charging at me, but he doesn’t have a gun. He slams into me and tries to push me backwards. It’s funny, or it would be if he didn’t have sixty identical friends joining him.
The Walters swarm me, their mass pushing me backwards. I swing my arms wildly, knocking the hapless creatures aside. One Walter is weak, but sixty is enough to push me even as I plant my feet. They end up shoving me over and then dog pile on top of me. They really aren’t hurting me. They can’t. But I can’t move, so I take the moment’s rest to try to get some more oxygen into my system.
“All right, Gabby, you’re up!” my Athlete friend, who I now know is named Rocky, yells.
I don’t like the sound of that. I flood my new supply of oxygen to the muscles in my arms then swing wildly, tossing the Walters aside like a dog shaking off water.
But I was too slow. Gabby did her thing. Or at least, I assume that’s what explains the giant ball of goo that’s flying straight at me. It hits and splatters, covering my body in a thick paste that ensnares a few Walters along with me.
I try to move, but it’s like I’m fighting quicksand. The paste soon hardens and becomes a vice. At least it’s more breathing and healing time. I’ve got my lungs back up to about 60%. Progress.
“Greg! It’s you!” Rocky yells.
A young man, presumably Greg, runs up with a bucket full of liquid he dumps onto me. Smells like more gasoline.
Then he stands back and takes on a look of concentration. His body shakes. The gasoline at his feet ignites in flames. I slow time enough to watch the fire follow a path down the liquid and head straight towards me. In an instant my entire body goes up in flames. Every drop of the gas on my skin is another torch.
The flames eat up all the oxygen in the air around me, stealing food from a starving man. There is one bit of upside: the adhesive that covered me has also erupted in flames. I can feel it weaken even as it flambés my legs. I kick and break free of my human glue trap. Now I’m just on fire, not trapped and on fire. An improvement.
I need a way to extinguish these flames, and stop, drop, and roll doesn’t work for gas fires. My muscles are becoming more deprived of oxygen by the second, and some cells are starting to die. There’s a whistle and I turn to see what looks like a wall of arrows. Did they teach the Walters archery?
As the projectiles grow closer, it becomes clear they aren’t arrows—they are metal rods flung by the Magnet. He cannot aim them, just use magnetic fields of opposing polarity to accelerate the metal and give it a general course. He’s counting on the fact one of the three dozen rods will hit.
I break into my best gymnast routine, rolling, flipping, and cartwheeling out of the way of the projectiles. I can only imagine how cool it looks considering I’m covered in flames. But I’m moving slower than I account for in my head. I do a cartwheel out of the way of one rod and straight into the path of another.
The rod isn’t sharp at the end, but it’s moving so fast it may as well be a scalpel. It tears through my flesh and continues on cutting through my dense muscles like they aren’t there. Then it reaches bone. Bone can’t cut, but it does break. And that’s just what happens: the rod smashes through my collarbone, shattering it even as it keeps going through to tear the soft tissue on the other side.
It finally comes to a stop halfway through me, skewering me like a kabob. But at least that was the last of the projectiles, until he reverses polarity and sends them flying backwards to me. I jump into the air, trying to get some distance between myself and the danger zone.
I don’t get as high in the air as I like, but I still spot just what I was hoping to see. There’s an old tanker truck rigged with a hand-powered pump and surrounded by buckets. I think that’s their water.
I land and charge at the tanker. The flames have made it through most of my skin and have started frying the muscles, killing the cells that haven’t yet succumbed to a lack of oxygen. I lower my shoulder and prepare for impact with the tanker. If it is somehow still full of gas, it will explode when my flaming body hits. At least it will be a spectacular way to die.
I smash into the old metal, which gives way like paper. My charge is turned back by a torrent of liquid that comes flowing from the hole and quickly douses my flames. It is water; I guess I get to live for another minute.
I don’t even get a moment to enjoy the ref
reshing wave. There are footsteps coming towards me, someone light. It’s a woman, and she’s making a beeline right at me. Just before she ploughs into me, I notice the bandolier full of grenades on her chest.
The blast hurls me through the air, and the shrapnel tears apart my already torn flesh. A piece of hot metal rips through my thigh, severing my femoral artery. Oh, good. The blast also ripped what little air I had out of my lungs and refried whatever lung tissue I had managed to grow back.
Systems all over my body shut down as my cells give in to the lack of oxygen and begin dying off. I manage to get a trickle of oxygen into my blood from some shallow breaths. I send the healthy blood to the neediest systems—the lungs themselves and my heart and brain. I don’t have enough to feed any other part of my body.
That’s why when Rocky the Athlete shows up, I don’t stand and face him. Instead I stay cowering in the fetal position.
“Man, you don’t look good,” he says.
It isn’t worth the oxygen I’d spend to retort.
He reaches down and grabs the rod that’s till sticking out of my shoulder. He rips it out, and not gently.
“Batter up!” he yells.
He swings down on me like he’s hammering in a fence post. Blow after blow, and I can only lay there like a felled piñata. The abuse finally ends when the rod cracks in half after a blow to the back of my head.
“You’re pretty tough, kid. I’ll give you that,” he says, then he looks at the broken rod in his hand and realizes I just made him a spear. He uses the dull end to flip me onto my back. Then he pulls back and prepares to plunge it into my chest. I’m going to die.
“Please, no,” I spit out with a hollow breath. Begging is the only hope I have left.
“Really? You just lost all the hard-ass points you earned. You could be alive. You could have stayed home safe and sound, but you wanted to be a hero. You play with fire, you get burned,” he says, proud of his clever joke.
I hear something in the distance, a dull repeating hum, almost like a fan. I’ve never heard the sound in real life, but I recognize it from movies and think.Net shows: it’s a helicopter. The National Guard.
