by Jason Winn
I’m coming for you, old buddy. No one dies alone. And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut.
He scanned the building, looking for lights. The fortieth floor was ablaze with office lights. The rest of the floors were mostly dark. With that, Axel made for the monument to the iron fist of the Values Party.
A crowd of protesters gathered at the entrance, shouting “traitor” and “no justice for the enemies of God!” They were adorned in Values Party purple and held pictures of soon-to-be President Gardner. Some sported a Hitler mustache. A bitter woman with a sour look on her face glared at Axel as he approached the entrance. He smiled at her and nodded. She softened when she saw he was just a maintenance worker.
A young woman dressed in a military-style uniform stood at the front door as technicians set up microphones on a podium. “Can I help you?” she asked Axel as he approached. Her tone was curt and professional. Her posture, military-perfect.
“Just here to check the emergency generator,” said Axel. “We got an alert at the office. Probably a false alarm.”
She stared at his name tag, which read “Sean Wright.”
There was a pause as she considered him.
“Just check in with security,” she said and waved him away.
He gave a polite nod and walked past her. Inside, Axel, no stranger to building maintenance procedures—that was his job after all, along with UN patrol craft—strolled up to the guard post and talked his way past them with a few jokes and a sexist comment about the woman at the door. They were the night shift, inexperienced and eager to get back to their conversation about sports. They simply pointed to the maintenance elevator without making him go through the body scanners.
Inside the elevator, Axel produced his city maintenance tablet. It was a little larger than his phone, but allowed him to jack into emergency access elevators, maintenance rooms, and public transportation vehicles. His had some special modifications on it, which allowed access to law enforcement and government buildings.
He pointed the tablet to the elevator’s control panel; a menu popped up and he hit the icon for the lower basement. When the doors opened, Axel made for the building’s main electrical control room, through a maze of catwalks, water pipes, and an IT systems conduit. The room was empty, just a series of metal boxes covered in high voltage warnings. From beneath his jumpsuit, he produced a small explosive. He’d made it several months ago for a black market contract job that never went through. The timer was set for five minutes. He shot back to the elevator.
There was a soft ding as the doors opened on the fortieth floor. The lights were on, but the lobby was empty. Axel pointed his maintenance control pad at the elevator and forced it to stay open and on this floor. He would need it in a few minutes.
He reached under his jump suit and pulled out a flat green box. With the click of a safety latch, the box split open and folded into a submachine gun. A red dot sight flipped into place on the top.
Axel made his way across the lobby. The walls came alive with Eagle One news feeds, activated by a hidden motion sensor. The screens showed President Petty IV shouting from a stage. His cheeks flushed with rage as he shook his fists at the sky. It was from earlier in the day, when he besieged his audience to resist the new heathen president. Thankfully the sound was muted.
The lobby opened up into a sprawling room segmented by wide panes of glass suspended from the ceiling. Between the panes were long sheets of paper. As Axel drew closer, he could see Bible verses riddled with handwritten notes. Interspersed between the glass panes were pieces of luxurious furniture and busts of Petty family members and generous corporate donors.
Axel checked his watch. Two minutes before the charge went off. The bass hum of a hovercraft could be heard in the distance. There was a landing pad two floors up, on the roof.
Voices echoed from his left, and through a break in the hanging papers, Axel could make out a group of police pushing a man in handcuffs through a pair of doors. It had to be Killick, with his long gray and white hair and that tan suit he always wore.
“We’ll get a free ticket to Venus with this one,” said one of the officers. “You like that, traitor?” He shoved the man in handcuffs. “You might be old, but the state never forgets your cowardice. You lost; you lose.” The last line was the not-so-secret mantra of the Values Party. They still blamed the loss on the soldiers and not the politicians who started it. While it was an utterly absurd sentiment, if people were told something enough, they started to believe it.
“No shit. Get me out of here,” said another guard. “Once that fucker Gardner gets into office, this country is going into the shitter.”
“Amen, partner.”
Axel noticed a smudge of blood on the marble floor. Crouching, he crept toward the men, scanning to see if anyone else around. Before he got to the door, he passed a simple metal chair. There, he saw more blood on the floor and a police stun baton. It was clear now; Killick was being turned over to the War Crimes Commission. These thugs were making the best of their last days in power.
Get paid and get out, you’re thinking.
His mind remained calm. Without the Hijack in him, Axel would be shaking uncontrollably with rage. His mind would fog and maybe he’d do something stupid like charge these goons. But he waited for the doors to close before following the group.
Loud footsteps clapped up the stairs. Axel made his feet into cats’ paws and followed the group upward. A moment later, he heard another set of doors open. The hovercraft engines were louder now.
This was his last chance to save Killick; his old partner in crime, who ironically never saw a day in combat. He had been a signal corps officer, watching screens all day. But the Commission took any American servicemen. They didn’t care what you did. They just wanted your head. Retribution was an equal opportunity sentiment.
Thirty seconds until the charge goes off.
Axel double-checked that his weapon’s safety was off and crashed through the doors leading to the rooftop landing pad. He counted seven men. The inbound hovercraft, with its sleek lines and blinking lights, was only a few hundred feet from the building. Axel knew it would have crowd control systems onboard. He had to move.
No hesitation.
He opened up with the submachine gun. Tracer rounds cut through the air. Two of the guards dropped. Killick collapsed to the deck. Another guard backed up, trying to draw his weapon, and fell backward off the building.
With an icy calm, Axel dispatched the last three guards. Only one got a round off, but it went wide.
He dove toward Killick, ejecting the spent magazine with a quick snap of the wrist, in a practiced motion. The magazine flew clear. He reloaded and produced a handheld welder.
A grizzled, old face looked up at Axel. Stubble marked his sunken cheeks, but his eyes were still full of fight. “Nice of you to see me off, partner,” said Killick.
Axel cut the handcuffs with the welder, burning the back of Killick’s suit jacket. “Get up, old man. We’re getting out of here—”
Axel’s last words were cut off as the hovercraft opened fire. Chunks of the landing pad turned to dust, clouding the air. Killick flinched and groaned. Ignoring his moans, Axel pulled him by the arm. Another blast from the hovercraft shattered a lamppost, sending sparks dancing against the rain.
“Stop, this is the police,” said a digital voice from the hovercraft.
Axel threw Killick through the doors leading down, then turning back, opened up on the hovercraft. He emptied the clip into the bright search light.
The craft veered away, smoke pouring from the nose.
Beneath his feet, the building shuddered. The lights flickered and went out. Axel reloaded and flew down the stairs to find Killick heaving for breath, leaning against a wall. Blood soaked the sleeve of his jacket.
“Can’t believe you, man,” said Killick. “I really liked this suit.” He held up a bloody arm and flashed a weak smile. His eyes drooped. Axel didn’t know if he was exhaus
ted or getting weak from blood loss.
“You’re welcome,” said Axel. He knew his old friend was just trying to use humor to deal with the situation. That’s what soldiers did. “Come on.”
Axel threw Killick’s good arm over his shoulder and the two made their way back to the big room with the hanging scriptures. Everything was dark, save for ambient street light reflecting off the glass.
“How’d they find you?” Axel asked.
“By accident. They were busting the bunny vans, looking for shakedowns.” He took a deep breath. “I was with a girl, buck naked, and they saw my unit tats. That’s all. Those fuckers never went after the vans before.” He shook his head absently.
“Yeah, they’re looking for pocket money, before the hammer comes down on them.”
“Never happen, my man. New president will be the same as the old fuckers.”
“Aw, don’t say that.”
Glass panels shattered in front of them. The cacophony of destruction was interspersed with shouts of “freeze” and “drop the weapon.” Bright lights swept through the room—flashlights mounted to pistols and rifles.
Axel answered with gunfire. More glass shattered. He caught sight of two security guards by the elevators and dropped them with a quick burst. They came to the two guards, limp on the floor.
“Hold up, hold up,” said Killick. He bent down and grabbed one the guards’ pistols and spare magazines with a groan. “If I’m going out, I’m going out shooting. Fuck this.”
“Elevator’s right there.” Axel pointed.
A dim red glow illuminated the lobby, emergency lighting from the open elevator.
More glass shattered, accompanied by the roar of chain guns. Bright orange tracer rounds tore through the air where the men had been standing. Axel turned to see the hovercraft searching for them outside.
The two shuffled inside the elevator. Axel hit the button for the lobby. Killick leaned against the wall as the elevator descended and checked his new pistol. The old man was actually looking a little better now.
“Couldn’t find any Blue Shirts to tag along?” asked Killick as he produced a cigarette and lit it with his good arm. His clothes sagged, soaked with rain, sweat, and blood.
“They’d just slow me down. Besides, they’re all busy getting ready to protect the inauguration.”
“I believe it. Blue Shirts don’t fuck around. Those cops back there said something about half the DC force quitting next week. They’re scared shitless, man.” Killick had a wild look in his eyes. “Gardner’s gonna bring down the hammer.”
“I hope so. And good-fucking-riddance to the crooked cops. I hope the good ones know they’ll be needed.”
“Are there any good cops left?”
“Yeah, I know a few. Old guys, like us, mostly.”
Killick exhaled a cloud of smoke. “How’d you find me, man?”
“Echo saw them pick you up, followed them until he got spotted and broke off. Then Dash saw you from his perch.”
“Thanks, man. I was a goner for sure. They were talking about handing me over to the Russians, talking about black sites and tubs of acid. I’m going to need about a pound of slate to get that shit out of my head.”
Axel looked at the monitor, above the floor buttons. It continuously flashed, “Emergency, emergency, please proceed to the nearest exit.”
“You know, man,” said Killick. “This shit reminds me of the time we robbed that Ibara Bank. That shit was nuts.”
“Don’t remind me.” The job had almost gotten both of them killed ten years before, and the Franco-Kruge Corporation still had a multi-million-dollar bounty on their heads.
They stood in silence, bathed in red emergency lighting; floor numbers counting down. As they neared the ground floor, the two men silently committed to each other that they would kill anyone on the other side of the doors when they opened. There would be no hesitation to shoot. They leveled their weapons at the doors.
A second later, the doors parted. The lobby security guards stared back at them, their eyes wide with confusion. Both reached for their sidearms, but they never touched the cold steel of their pistols.
Killick fired first, immediately followed by Axel. Shell casings flew everywhere as the men blasted their way out of the elevator.
A woman screamed. Axel recognized her as the one who waved him inside. Killick shot her in the chest. She fell to the floor. More gunfire barked from the visitor waiting area. Axel turned to see several corporate cops firing at them. He emptied his magazine into their chests, shattering glass and the marble trim wall behind them.
Killick bounded for the front door. Through it, Axel could see the crowd scattering in all directions. He reloaded with his last mag and followed his buddy.
On the street, Axel fired a burst into the air to motivate the crowd to get out of their way.
Killick’s head swiveled as he scanned for threats. “Where to, man?”
Axel pulled out his maintenance pad and aimed it at a municipal police car parked on the street. He connected to it, unlocked it, and started the ignition.
“Looks like this needs a test drive,” he said.
“Works for me, brother.”
They got in and sped off.
Fifteen minutes later, after crisscrossing the city to ensure they weren’t being followed, Axel dropped Killick off at an underground vet’s clinic, guarded by the Blue Shirts. It was run by a trio of old corpsmen, but they had connections with the city hospital staff. He’d get the medical attention he needed.
He then made his way to an abandoned shopping mall not far from his apartment, and disabled the car’s software once he cleared the travel logs. Someone would eventually find it and probably strip it for scrap.
Satisfied his tracks were covered and hopeful that Killick would survive his wounds, Axel Nash trudged home in the rain.
A week after Killick’s rescue, Axel stood in the waist-deep water of the Potomac River replacing a fuel pump on a United Nations police boat. They interfered less and less often with daily life, as the member nations’ concern for America’s ability to cause trouble decreased. How closely did you need to guard a withered old criminal?
The water around him was thick with mud and covered with an oily residue. If there were any fish left in this part of the river, it would have stank of dead fish. As he stood on what was once called Ohio Drive, an old street that ran along the Potomac River, he could feel old tires, fragments of sunken patrol craft, and discarded fishing nets. A flotilla of ramshackle sail and motor boats crisscrossed the water in all directions, heading to the black markets on the Virginia coast.
Above, security aircraft and drones hovered silently in the smog, pretending to keep a close eye out for overt acts of violence or other criminal activities. The rowdier inauguration protesters, with their signs and gas masks, had been swept away, carted off to Turtle Head Prison. Twenty-four hours after President Ellis Gardner was sworn in, in the new US capital of Denver, one could hardly tell that the old capital of Washington, DC, had been a near war zone. The crowds swarmed the city, filing out from the Church of the Pentagon for a symbolic protest at the old capital building.
Axel chose to skip work that day in order to quietly celebrate the victory of the Horizon Party. Their razor-thin victory over the Values Party had shocked the nation.
Tourist hovercraft droned overhead as visitors got a good look at the previous capital of the world’s former sole superpower. If he squinted, he could see them hanging over the railings, taking pictures of the crumbling monuments and museums on the Mall. Cracks and ivy ran up the granite façades.
As Axel placed the cover back on the panel he was working on, he heard a familiar sputter of an engine failing on one of the tourist hovercraft above. He looked up to see smoke billowing out of a craft the size of an old city bus. Tourists screamed and held onto the railings of the open top hovercraft as it began its descent toward the tidal basin.
Axel scanned the armada of security a
ircraft and drones above to see that none of them were changing course and making for the hovercraft falling toward the water. He’d been told by a buddy of his in the UN patrol services that security for the tourists was America’s responsibility. They had no authority or interest to being an ambulance service.
Axel fired up the police boat and sped for the soon-to-be crash site. As he skipped across the water, he watched as trading boats scattered away from the imminent crash. Several tourists jumped from the hovercraft and splashed down in the water. Some of the trading boats turned around and headed toward the jumpers.
The hovercraft hit the water, skipped once and flipped, throwing at least two dozen tourists into the air. The plastic and metal of the hovercraft’s body splintered and flew in all directions. The engine came away from the fuselage and caromed off the water, arcing through the air, then sank to join the rest of the garbage. Axel came about as he neared the crash site and dove into the water. Within seconds he was pulling injured survivors out of the water and up into the patrol boat.
An hour later all the survivors had been pulled from the water. Several boats loaded with injured tourists followed Axel back to the dock. He noticed that most of them were either Chinese or Russian.
Probably came to gloat, he thought. That’s what victors did, right? They came to see how the losers lived. At least that’s what Axel thought motivated people from the new empires to come and see the crumbling remains of the US capital.
He looked down at a little girl as she shivered from the wind whipping at her soaking clothes. He waved at her. She smiled and waved back. Her mother, sitting next to her, slapped her hands down and scowled up at him.
Fucking ingrates, Axel thought to himself. He’d just saved their lives and they couldn’t even thank him with a simple smile.
An hour later, the tourists headed back to their hotels and Axel Nash sat on a weathered bench outside the Metro transit tool shed. Above him loomed a giant billboard for Righteous Fire soda, one of the few boards that hadn’t been torn down after the Great Rapture. The woman in the ad looked off in the distance, a red and white can of Righteous Fire in her hands, with the words “He’ll pray for me if I drink to him,” hovering above her.
