The Block

by Ben Oliver

  “I think I’ve broken every single rib. Every single goddamned rib,” he gasps.

  I can hear the sound of his snapped bones popping back into place from here, and I can feel my own ear zipping itself back to the side of my head.

  “We have to keep moving,” I say, my voice equally as gravelly as his.

  I drag myself to my feet and help Malachai to his. I try not to show the panic I’m feeling as I see that three segments have now lit up in his eyes.

  “Apple-Moth, time?” I call out, and the drone floats into the air beside me.

  “You’re alive!” the drone wails happily, spinning loops in the air. “You’re alive, alive, alive!”

  “Yes, we’re alive, Apple-Moth,” I grunt, the pain just starting to evaporate. “What’s the time?”

  “It’s 11:09, friend,” Apple-Moth says, colors flickering rapidly, blue to green to pink to orange.

  Eleven minutes, I think. Eleven minutes until it’s too late!

  The sound of Happy’s voice blaring out into the afternoon reverberates around us, commanding its soldiers to track us, to follow us and find us and bring us back.

  I pull Malachai along with me as I stumble into the tall grass behind the Arc.

  We move deeper, making the most of the small amount of time we’ve gained from luring the soldiers to the top of the enormous building before making our escape.

  I hear the sound of running water and we half stagger and half fall down an embankment and into a shallow stream. And still the voices grow louder behind us.

  My wrist clicks back into place as I look frantically around for a place to run, a place to hide.

  And then I see a large sewer outlet pipe pouring a steady stream of gray water out toward the lake. A way down. A way into the tunnels.

  Remembering Malachai’s Panoptic camera, I quickly unclip the Alt body armor, take off my T-shirt, and wrap it around Malachai’s head. I then put the body armor back on, wondering all the time if it’ll matter, because time is running out and those robotic eyes will come online any minute.

  “Come on,” I say, pulling Malachai toward the pipeline.

  We climb up into the foul-smelling tube and run, crouched over so far that it’s hard to breathe.

  As soon as we’re in the pipeline I think about Sam’s words the last time I was in the tunnels—you do not want to get lost down here. But there’s no choice; we have to get back to the library.

  I can hear Malachai’s breath behind me, ragged and hoarse.

  “Apple-Moth,” I say, and the little drone appears in front of my face.

  “Yes, friend?”

  “Can you light the way?”

  “No problem!”

  A bright light illuminates the tunnel, and I can’t see the end of it; it just goes on and on.

  “Luka,” Malachai grunts.

  “Just keep moving,” I tell him, trying to ignore the choking sensation in my lungs.

  “Luka,” he says again, and I can feel him tugging on my arm as his legs buckle beneath him. He regains his balance and I continue pulling him forward.

  “There’s no time, Malachai,” I tell him as the panic starts to rise up in me. I already know that we’re too far away from the library, and I don’t know my way around these tunnels, and there’s only minutes left before Happy—

  “Luka, stop!” he screams. The desperation in his voice strikes me like a fist.

  “What is it?” I ask, standing still, breathing heavily.

  “It’s going to happen soon. You have to do it now.”

  I look into the boy’s handsome face, so handsome, in fact, that he was known as a Natural back before the apocalypse: a Regular so perfect he was often mistaken for an Alt. In his eyes I see that the lights are now three-quarters of the way around his iris.

  “They’re uploading the code that will turn me into a host, Luka. As long as I have these eyes, they can get to me.”

  “Igby’s at the hideout; he can figure out how to stop it. There’s a surgeon too, if it comes to that.”

  Malachai shakes his head. “It has to happen now.”

  I stare into his robot eyes. They change my friend’s face so drastically. He’s still beautiful but he’s not completely Malachai. “I don’t think I can do it, Malachai. I can’t—”

  “Please, Luka,” he says, lowering his voice.

  The reality of what he’s asking of me sinks in, and I feel horror creeping up my spine.

  “I don’t know if I can,” I say.

  Malachai nods. “Then kill me, Luka, please, because I can’t become one of them.” He points in the direction of the Arc. “I’ve seen what happens to the person behind the eyes, I’ve seen the agony of the passengers inside, and I won’t let it happen to me.”

  For a moment I try to think of another solution, I scour my mind for a way out, but I know there’s nothing else.

  I look to Apple-Moth, whose lights dim to an almost-imperceptible orange glow. I look back to Malachai.

  “Lie down,” I say, trying to steel myself.

  Malachai nods, relief mixing with utter terror on his face as he lies in the shallow, dirty water, mechanical eyes staring at the metal of the pipe.

  I reach a shaking hand toward his face, noticing that another segment of light has come alive.

  “Wait,” Malachai whispers as a pool of tears spills onto his cheek, and his eyes scan his dingy surroundings. “It would’ve been nice to have seen the sky one last time … okay. Do it.”

  I take a breath, and then there is no more hesitation.

  I push my forefinger into the socket beside his left eye, my mind recoiling.

  Malachai begins to scream as I push harder. The agonized and inhuman noise that escapes my friend makes my head spin. I begin to feel faint, nauseous, weak, but I keep going, wrapping my thumb around the cyborg eyeball and pulling it toward me.

  Malachai lets out a closed-mouth scream, thumping his fists against the pipe on either side of him, sending out a reverberating shudder.

  I haul at the artificial eye, but it won’t come.

  I suppress waves of nausea and pull harder, harder; Malachai’s scream turns into a bloodcurdling screech. I grit my teeth, breathing heavily through my revulsion. Finally, there’s an audible snap, and it’s over.

  Malachai falls silent as I vomit into the foul water. Tears run down my face, my vision blurred and graying out at the edges as I struggle to maintain consciousness.

  I turn back to my friend. I look to see if his chest is rising and falling. It isn’t.

  “No! No, Malachai, don’t you dare die!”

  I crawl over to him and begin to pump at his chest.

  “He’s not dead, friend,” Apple-Moth says, hovering beside my left ear.

  “But his heart …” I start, and then I remember what Igby had said: They’ve already taken their eyes. They’ve replaced their lungs and their hearts.

  Malachai now has an MOR and an APM system: no lungs and no heart. I press my newly fixed ear against his chest and hear the mechanical hum of machinery.

  He’s still alive.

  I’m distracted by a noise, a quiet, mechanical whirring, and I realize that it’s coming from my hand.

  I look down. Malachai’s eye is moving, the pupil contracting. I see that the second-to-last light around the iris has come on—I’m almost out of time. And then the pupil begins to revolve until it’s looking right at me.

  Without thinking, I smash the blood-covered eye against the floor of the pipe, shattering it.

  I clamber back to Malachai. The other eye continues to upload and I don’t have time to hesitate. It’s easier now that he’s unconscious.

  The final light comes on and a rapid beeping sound comes from the eye just seconds after it is liberated from Malachai’s socket. I’m about to destroy this eye too when something stops me. I think of the eye that Igby uses to hack into Happy’s mind, and I push it deep into my pocket.

  I survey the scene before me. My friend, lyi
ng still in the sewage water, face streaked with blood, two bruised and bloodied holes where his eyes should be. And me: hands red with gore; exhausted both mentally and physically.

  Apple-Moth moves slowly around us both. The drone’s movements are sluggish, as if it is somehow queasy too.

  I pull the T-shirt covering Malachai’s forehead down to cover his wounds too. Now that his eyes are out, Malachai’s Panoptic is the only way Happy has of tracking us, other than the Mosquitoes, but Apple-Moth will be taking care of them.

  What now? I think, sitting on my heels and putting the body armor back on, but there’s no time for careful planning as the voices of the soldiers come again, far away, echoing down the pipeline, but close enough for the adrenaline to flow back into my body.

  “They’re coming, friend, we have to move!” Apple-Moth says, zipping back and forth through the air.

  “I know,” I grunt as I scramble over Malachai, hooking my arms around his chest. I try to drag him deeper into the pipeline.

  Apple-Moth flies over, grabs Malachai by the hair, and tries to help me drag him—but it’s no use. There’s no way we’re moving fast enough to outrun Happy’s soldiers.

  Then Malachai begins to stir.

  “Malachai,” I whisper, crouching beside him, “can you walk?”

  “I’m not one of them?” he asks, his voice raspy and full of pain.

  “No,” I tell him, “you’re still you.”

  “I’m blind,” he says, sounding neither pleased or displeased.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “Stupid fucking question,” Malachai barks back. “It hurts. It hurts like hell, but I think I’m in shock right now, because it’s bearable.”

  “Can you stand? The Alts are coming, and we need to get you to a doctor.”

  Malachai nods and gets shakily to his feet. I watch as a disturbing amount of blood seeps from his right eye socket into the T-shirt.

  I put my arm around him, and tell Apple-Moth to light the way again, and we stumble through the sewer pipe for what feels like a very long time, until finally it connects to larger stormwater tunnels and we can stand up straight again.

  “Apple-Moth,” I say, and the drone turn toward me, dazzling me with its beam.

  “Yes, friend!”

  “Do you know the way back to the—” I almost say library, but catch myself before I reveal the location of our hideout to Malachai’s Panoptic microphone. “Back to the base?”

  Apple-Moth turns slowly around, scanning his surroundings. “No. Not one hundred percent, but I could try.”

  “It’ll have to do,” I say. “Lead the way.”

  Apple-Moth glows green, and begins to move cautiously through the old tunnels, turning first one way, changing its mind and then turning another.

  We follow the drone for what feels like twenty minutes, when, finally, I whisper, “Apple-Moth, how much farther?”

  “Umm,” the drone replies, turning toward me and then away, “not long now!”

  The drone’s voice is so unsure that I already know we’re lost. I’m about to yell at it when Malachai falls to the ground behind me.

  “Malachai,” I call, running over to his collapsed form.

  Apple-Moth comes over. “He’s alive.”

  “Where’s the nearest exit?” I ask, knowing that we have to get our bearings.

  Apple-Moth scans the area. “Umm, it’s two minutes that way, but don’t be mad if we’re not right beside the base. I was getting there.”

  Apple-Moth leads us in the direction of the nearest exit. I pull Malachai along and progress is slow, but finally we make it to another sewage outlet pipe and drop down into an ancient, abandoned wastewater treatment plant.

  All around us are concrete tanks sunk into the ground that would once have been filled with sewage water, but are now empty. The machinery is all rusted and still, and thousands of birds have made their nests on the roof of the old metal tanks that tower over us.

  I don’t hang around, though—I see higher ground ahead, and drag Malachai through the structure and over to the grassy hill. When we reach the top, my heart sinks. We are nowhere near the library; instead we are on the edge of town, only a quarter mile from the Red Zone.

  “Dammit, Apple-Moth!” I yell, suddenly filled with anger.

  “I’m sorry, friend, I got lost!”

  “You got lost and now Malachai might die!”

  Apple-Moth’s lights dim until they’re almost gone, and I feel pity and regret welling up in me.

  “I’m so sorry, friend,” Apple-Moth says.

  “Don’t be,” I reply. “It’s not your fault. I would’ve gotten us just as lost.”

  Apple-Moth turns away, as though hiding so I can’t see it cry.

  I look out over the city and try to figure out what my next move is.

  And then I hear footsteps coming from the wastewater plant. I look down and see three Alt soldiers coming toward us.

  “No!” I whisper, trying to duck down, but I know that they’ve already seen us.

  I grab Malachai and start pulling him down the other side of the hill. Finally, I pick him up, channeling all my desperation into strength, and run on shaking legs toward the woodland on the edge of the Red Zone.

  I can hardly breathe, I’m so exhausted, so tired, but I keep on going, keep on running.

  I carry Malachai into the woods, Apple-Moth flying alongside us, but progress is slow. Too slow. The footsteps grow louder; the commands of the senior officers are closer. I’m unarmed and Malachai is unconscious. I try to hide, laying Malachai down behind a bush and crouching beside him.

  But suddenly, they are there. Three soldiers, all of them with headlight eyes, staring down at us.

  At least it’s not Tyco, I think, looking at each of the human hosts one at a time. At least he doesn’t get the satisfaction.

  Apple-Moth glows red and hovers in front of us, trying to protect us with its tiny body.

  I shake my head, sweat spilling off me. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

  One of the host soldiers steps forward, his eyes lighting up the gloom of the forest.

  “Because,” he says, a hint of smug satisfaction in his almost lifeless voice, “we need three of you to re—”

  And then his head bulges above his right eye and he falls down dead.

  The two other soldiers have no time to react before they too are hit by USW rounds.

  Five seconds after the soldiers arrived, they are now dead in front of us, their eyes fading until there’s no light in them anymore, artificial light or life-light.

  “What the hell?” I murmur.

  And then, from behind me, a rustling of branches.

  I stand and turn in time to see a girl emerging from the thicket. At first she is almost invisible—she’s wearing camouflage clothing and her face is painted in shades of green, leaving her looking like an apparition.

  “Step aside, Luka,” she says, slinging the strap of the USW rifle over her shoulder.

  “Molly?” I ask, sure that this is a mirage. The last time I saw my sister she was an emaciated clone, high on Ebb, sores on her face, cracked lips, sunken eyes. Now she looks strong, tough.

  I feel overwhelmed, overcome—elated. My legs are suddenly too weak to hold me and I slump down to the ground.

  “You’re alive,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re alive. Molly …”

  She drops to one knee beside me and Malachai and I reach out to touch her, to make sure that she’s real, but she ignores me, removing a thin metal tool from her pocket.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She doesn’t reply, only removes the T-shirt from Malachai’s head, places the tip of the spiked tool against his Panoptic camera, and pushes down with all her strength.

  The tool spins and sinks into Malachai’s head. Jesus, hasn’t he been through enough? I think, but I’m still too overwrought and incredulous at the sight of my sister to really feel much else.

  “Take
his legs,” Molly says, extracting the tool, which has grabbed the tiny camera from the bleeding hole in Malachai’s forehead. “I’ll grab his arms.”

  “Molly, you’re …” I start, but my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting as I try to comprehend what’s going on.

  “Hurry, there will be more of them,” she says, throwing the dislodged Panoptic into the trees. There’s something strange about her voice, something dull and listless.

  Molly grabs Malachai around the chest and then gives me an impatient look as I stand there, staring at her.

  “Right, yeah,” I say, grabbing the boy’s feet and lifting him.

  “Is this a new friend?” Apple-Moth answers, floating around Molly’s head.

  “Luka, why do you have a toy?” my sister asks, struggling with the weight of Malachai.

  “Uh, Apple-Moth,” I say, “sleep mode.”

  “Oh, but we’re on an adventu—”

  “Sleep mode, Apple-Moth,” I demand. “I promise I’ll reactivate you later. Your battery is on five percent anyway,” I point out, noticing the warning message hovering over the drone’s body.

  “Fine!” the drone replies irately, and then falls slowly to the ground.

  I pick up the drone and put it in my pocket, glancing sheepishly at my clearly impatient sister.

  “It’s not a toy, exactly,” I say, grabbing Malachai’s legs. “It’s a mobile scrambler—it hides me from Mosquitoes.”

  “Uh-huh,” Molly says.

  I glance up at the storm clouds, now so dense and dark that Apple-Moth’s battery was struggling to recharge. I know now that Happy is filling that storm cloud full of Mosquitoes and attack drones. Its plan? I’m not sure.

  We pick Malachai up and I try to carry him toward a thick area of brush, but Molly pulls him toward the Red Zone.

  “This way,” she says.

  “We can’t get any closer to the fence,” I say. “The radiation—”

  “This way,” she repeats, and again, I notice that odd indolent tone to her voice. Is she back on Ebb?

  I look around for a better option. Molly does not have our healing abilities and I don’t want her risking her life in the Red Zone, but the sound of more soldiers approaching makes up my mind, and I follow her.