by Aaron Hodges
She paused, then crossed the room until she stood beside Mike. The camera panned, revealing the broken man to the nation, and the world. Sagging in his chair, the Texan looked up with red-stained eyes. His lips parted, as though to speak, but after a long moment he only bowed his head again.
The Director smiled. “As you know, this man is responsible for the attack on Independence Square. He appears before you today to give his final confession, before he faces justice.” At her words, she nodded to the guards behind the Texan.
The men sprang into action, uncuffing Mike and lifting him to his feet. He swayed between them, eyes lowered to the ground. For a moment, Chris thought he would resist, that his honor would shine through and he would refuse to read the confession the Director had given him. He held his breath, cradling the spark of hope in his chest.
“I did it.” The words were so soft, Chris thought he had imagined them. Slowly the Texan lifted his head until he was looking into the camera. “I did it. I infected them, all those innocent people, I turned them into Chead. I used them to attack the noble widows of your veterans.”
He closed his eyes as he finished, sagging in the arms of the guards. They lowered him back into the chair and refastened the handcuffs as the Director stepped forward again.
“Thank you, Michael.” She placed a hand on his shoulders and stared into the camera. “Your honesty has earned you mercy.”
She nodded to the doctor. Stepping up beside her, the woman took one of the vials from the tray and inserted it into the jet-injector. She moved behind Mike and looked at the Director, awaiting her command.
The Director shook her head. “Not you.” Her eyes settled on Chris. “Christopher, come here.”
Chris’s heart fell into his stomach. A shudder swept through him, and somewhere in his mind a voice screamed, but his legs were already moving him. Crossing to where the others stood, he reached for the jet-injector. The doctor handed it over without argument and retreated, relief showing in her eyes.
His heart pounding, Chris looked at the camera and realized for the first time that he was exposed. As far as the world knew, he was a renegade, an escaped prisoner from a maximum-security facility, hellbent on destroying the government. Beside him, the Director smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Christopher Sanders, who worked with this man to attack Independence Square, will carry out the sentence today. For the past few weeks, he has been working tirelessly with me to put an end to his former comrades. This will be his final act of redemption.”
Chris shuddered. He could hardly breathe, hardly think. The jet-injector in his hand shook as he stared down at Mike. The Texan’s head was bowed, his neck exposed, waiting for the end. A hiss issued from Chris’s throat as he stood taut. In his hand, the injector gun gleamed in the overhead lights, the clear vial of liquid waiting to be released.
Finally, he let out a long breath and lowered the jet-injector until the steel tip pressed against Mike’s neck. The Texan flinched as the cold metal touched his skin. Then he seemed to relax, his shoulders slumping as he embraced his fate.
“Do it, Chris,” Mike whispered.
Closing his eyes, Chris squeezed the trigger.
Then an alarm began to sound.
24
Sam slumped against the wall as the last guard screamed and fell back, clutching his shattered kneecap. Gasping, Sam struggled to keep his feet, and failed. He slid slowly down the wall, leaving a trail of blood and copper feathers on the whitewashed concrete. Stifling a groan, he closed his eyes and decided to take a moment and regather his strength. His wings hung heavy on either side of him, and it took an effort of will to re-tuck them behind his back.
There had been more guards than he’d expected—definitely more than he could reasonably handle. Only the facility’s corridors had saved him. Their narrow width meant only two guards could come at him at once, and those waiting behind couldn’t get a clear shot at him.
Of course, the long corridor had also almost been his end when he’d first stepped from the elevator. A guard had been stationed some twenty feet from the elevator doors. With only open space between them, Sam had had to employ some creative flying, but unfortunately the guard had been smarter than the others upstairs. He’d managed to activate an alarm panel before Sam could reach him.
Things had only gone downhill from there.
But Sam hadn’t been joking about saving his anger for the Director. Ever since Liz and Jasmine had returned from the university alone, it had been bubbling beneath the surface. So, as the corridor flashed with red lights and the alarm started to shriek, Sam gave his rage free rein.
Reinforcements had been quick to arrive, tumbling from a door halfway down the corridor like lemmings, racing to their deaths. Some wore identical uniforms to the guards upstairs, others the green camouflage of the national army. Despite their awkward emergence, they formed up in seconds, lifting rifles to take aim.
But Sam was already a step ahead. Picking up their fallen colleague, he charged. Gunshots cracked loudly in the narrow space and he felt the hard thwack of bullets as they struck the body he carried, tearing through his body armor and into flesh. A few whizzed overhead, and one found its mark, slicing Sam’s forearm like a hot knife through butter.
Then he was among them. Driven by an instinctive fury, he moved without thought, little more than a blur to the soldiers. He had held nothing back, and body armor or no, the men he struck did not get back up.
Two had managed to deal lucky blows—a knife to Sam’s hip and another bullet to his shoulder—but in the end, Sam was the only one left standing.
Now, the facility was still but for the low moans of those he’d left conscious. A guard whose leg he had just snapped was trying to crawl away, his pitiful cries echoing off the concrete walls.
“Oh, shut up,” Sam barked. He dragged the man back and knocked his head into the ground.
Lying down again, Sam sucked in another breath. He could barely comprehend the wreckage of broken bodies he’d left behind. There were almost two dozen guards and soldiers lying around him. Most sported shattered legs or broken arms. The few still conscious were in no condition to continue fighting—and he’d broken their guns anyway. More lay comatose, dark bruises already swelling on their faces where he’d struck them.
And a few lay dead, their lifeblood pooling beneath them on the concrete floor.
Sam’s stomach swirled at the sight and he quickly looked away. He shook his head. They had chosen their side. Working in a place like this, they could hardly claim ignorance.
As he breathed, he caught the whiff of a familiar scent. Turning, he frowned, sniffing the air again, sorting through the smell of blood and chlorine, seeking out the one he recognized. It was just the faintest trace, but somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel something respond to it.
Gathering himself, Sam struggled back to his feet. Was it the scent of the latest subjects? Of a new batch of winged humans like himself and the others? Had they already completed their transformation?
The thought of conscripted teenagers locked in cells rekindled his anger, and he quickly set off down the corridor. He’d caught glimpses of white-coated doctors fleeing as he fought the guards, but there was no sign of them now. The corridors had been abandoned, leaving him to explore the secrets of Alcatraz in peace.
Coming to a crossroads, he tasted the air, seeking out the direction of the scent, and took the turn to his right. He made his way through the twisting corridors in silence. The shriek of the alarm had stopped now, but emergency lights still blinked at short intervals, staining the walls red. Each step sent fire burning through the gash in his hip, and he could feel the blood seeping from his other wounds. His left bicep throbbed and his arm hung limp at his side now.
Thankfully, he didn’t encounter any more guards as he continued through the maze. Whoever had been guarding the deeper sections of the facility, they were obviously gathering elsewhere. No doubt the Directo
r was making sure she had plenty of guns around to protect herself from the intruder.
Finally, Sam found himself confronted by a heavy steel door inlaid with reinforcing bars, and knew he had the right place. He had expected guards to be stationed at the entrance to the cells, but if there’d been any, they had already abandoned their post.
The door was closed, but he was starting to get the hang of the doctor’s watch, and after a few minutes of fiddling, the panel beside the door gave a loud beep. The door swung open, its well-oiled hinges shifting without so much as a squeak.
Sam started forward, then staggered to a stop as a wave of putrid air struck him. He gagged and quickly covered his mouth with his shirt, though it did little to keep out the stench. Breathing through his mouth, he continued, already dreading what he would find within. It certainly smelled nothing like the pleasant scent he’d followed to get there.
Beyond the doors, a smaller model of the prison block awaited. Rows of cells stretched out to either side of the corridor, only single story here, and only about twenty cells long. Inside, he glimpsed the same four-bunk-bed arrangement they’d had back in the Californian mountains.
Which meant the prison block could hold up to one hundred and sixty tortured souls.
Sam choked as he looked through the bars of the first cell. The two occupants had once been human, but no longer. Strange lumps had erupted from their backs, a cruel imitation of his own wings. Their skin was red and scaled in places, while long claws had sprouted from their fingertips. The familiar steel collars shone around their necks, but they were no longer needed. Both were dead. At the end, they hadn’t even been able to make it to the toilet in the back of their cage. The cell was a stinking mess of bodily fluids.
His stomach rebelling, Sam slowly backed away. A dull cry left his throat, but there were no words to articulate the horror in his heart. He stumbled further down the corridor, looking from cell to cell, seeking out someone—anyone—who had survived. Most held only one or two occupants, though the unmade sheets on the bunks suggested there had once been four in each. It didn’t take much to guess the missing occupants hadn’t survived this far into the project.
When Sam was halfway along the corridor, he noticed a boy lying in one of the cells who showed no sign of mutation. Frowning, he moved closer. The occupant lay on the bottom bunk, eyes closed and unmoving. Yet Sam could see no obvious sign of injury or deformation.
Leaning his head against the bar, Sam closed his eyes. What had killed this one?
Suddenly the hairs on his neck stood up. His eyes snapped open as in the cell, the boy sat up. Before Sam could react, the boy leapt, his hand shooting between the bars to catch Sam by the shirt. With terrifying strength, he dragged Sam forward, a wild snarl on his lips.
Looking at his eyes, Sam recoiled as he saw the harsh grey of the Chead. He clasped his hands together and brought them down on the boy’s elbows. There was a sharp crack as the joint snapped. The Chead screamed and stumbled back from the bars. Staggering away from the cell, Sam listened in horror as the prison block came to life around him.
Most died during the change, he thought, watching as the grey-eyed occupants threw themselves at the bars, and the others—the others succumbed to the madness.
His shoulders slumped as he thought of Ashley, of her quest to put right the wrong he had committed. He had sworn he would do everything he could to save these kids for her, to make up for what he’d done at the President’s press conference, but he had failed. Guilt swirled in his chest, and falling to his knees, he vomited the last remnants of his stomach onto the concrete floor.
“Sam?”
Sam was so preoccupied, he didn’t hear the voice call his name at first. Only when it came again did he pause and look around.
Ashley stood at the bars of a nearby cell, her amber eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Her familiar white wings stretched out to either side of her, glowing in the fluorescent lights, and her fiery red hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
“Sam,” Ashley repeated. Her voice was filled with disbelief.
“Ash?” Sam whispered, his heart pounding like a runaway train.
He stared at the ghost in the cell, unable to believe what he was seeing. How could it be true? Chris had sworn he would die before he was captured—Liz had told him so. And for Ashley, returning to captivity, to be used and abused again, would have been worse than death.
Yet there she stood, her pale skin aglow with life, the murderous collar locked around her elegant neck.
“You came,” Ashley breathed.
25
Liz ducked back around the corner as bullets tore into the concrete wall where she’d just stood. Her two companions in espionage waited behind her, eyebrows raised. Maria clutched her gun in both hands. She’d given the grenade belt to Mira again, much to Liz’s chagrin.
“I’m pretty sure Sam’s behind the door at the end,” Liz said. When Maria’s doubtful look didn’t change, she went on. “I’m not nuts. I can smell him, I swear.”
Despite her words, Liz wasn’t as confident as she’d been when they’d started out. She’d followed the familiar scent through the winding corridors, keeping an eye out for guards and the facility’s other occupants, but until now, they had encountered no one.
Apparently that was because they’d all been here. At the other end of the corridor were a dozen men, and unlike the ones outside the elevator, these were more than capable of fighting back. Several wore the blue uniforms of guards, but the rest sported sleek, tight-fitting black uniforms with helmets that concealed their faces.
Unfortunately, if her sense of smell was correct, they had captured Sam and were holding him behind the door at the end of the corridor.
Silently, she cursed her friend for rushing in without backup—never mind that she hadn’t been much better. If not for Maria’s insistence, she would have come alone as well. Glancing at the old woman now, she wondered again whether bringing her had been the right decision. Much as Liz was enjoying the old woman’s company, the real fighting was about to begin, and she couldn’t help but think of Chris again. He would be horrified to know she’d let his grandmother go storming into battle.
“You should wait here, Maria,” she said, making one last attempt to protect the old woman. “This is going to get ugly.”
Maria only smiled. Turning, she took the belt from Mira and unclipped a grenade. “Use this one, my dear,” she said, offering it to Liz and passing the belt back to Mira. “Then we’ll see who’s left.”
Liz swallowed as she took the heavy steel ball. This grenade had the more traditional shape, with a cross-pattern of grooves striping its circular surface. After a moment’s hesitation, she held down the safety lever and pulled the pin. Then she darted into the corridor and hurled it with all her strength.
A good sixty feet away, the guards managed to get off a couple of shots before Liz could retreat to safety. She cursed as hot lead tore through her right wing, but took some satisfaction from the sight of a soldier’s head whipping back as the grenade struck him in the jaw.
Panicked shouting carried down the corridor, followed by an earsplitting boom. She closed her eyes as the ground shook and a wave of heat swept around the corner.
When the warmth dissipated, Liz stood and peered cautiously at her handiwork. She shuddered at the destruction left by the explosion. The men had been wearing body armor, but it had been no match for grenade’s power. The leading guards had been cut to pieces by flying shrapnel, and even those near the back of the group had been knocked from their feet.
But several were already recovering. With sixty feet of open space to traverse, Liz didn’t waste another second. Leaping from cover, she sprinted down the corridor towards them.
The surviving soldiers were shaking their heads, dazed, but several saw her coming. In their shock they hesitated, and Liz managed to close the gap to thirty feet.
Then they raised their rifles.
Cursing, Liz spri
nted on. It was too late to retreat now. All she could do was pray they were terrible shots.
She flinched as gunshots echoed loudly in the corridor, and waited for the pain to follow. Instead, one guard went down, then another, as bullets tore into their massed ranks.
Gaping, Liz risked a glance back and took in the sight of Maria standing at the end of the corridor. Both hands clenched around her handgun, she emptied the clip into the soldiers. Pressed against the wall, she had an easy shot over Liz’s shoulder into the grouped men.
As her gun clicked empty, Maria vanished back into cover, but she had given Liz the seconds she needed.
Returning her attention to the soldiers, Liz counted four still standing. Less than fifteen feet separated them now, and she was upon them before they could fire a shot.
She slammed into the first, hurtling him backwards into his comrades. In the chaos that ensued, Liz made short work of the others. The guards in their fancy uniforms were no more of a match for her than the others had been.
Puffing lightly, Liz waved for her friends to join her. She grinned sheepishly as Maria walked up, Mira a step behind.
“Thanks for your help,” she mumbled.
Maria smiled. “Only one clip left. Let’s make it count. You think he’s behind there?”
Liz sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I hope so.”
They studied the door for a moment, wondering what was on the other side. Whoever hid within remained silent, leaving them no clue as to what waited. Beside Liz, Mira said nothing, her multicolored eyes staring into empty space.
Liz’s heart contracted as she looked at the girl. Mira had seen far too much death for someone so young. Crouching, Liz squeezed the girl’s shoulder.
“Hey, I want you to stay here and look after Maria, okay?” she whispered.
Mira’s eyes flickered back into focus. Silently, she hugged Liz, who smiled and returned the gesture, gently stroking the girl’s hair. Then she pulled away and looked at Maria.
