“Good. Now, calmly and carefully, walk your asses outside.”
Under Janson’s watchful eyes, the building emptied in sixty seconds. She couldn’t prevent the screeching tires and blaring horns in the parking lot, but at least no one had been trampled during the exodus.
Janson walked to a black motorcycle parked at the edge of the lot and swung her right leg over the seat. For several long moments, she stood transfixed by the debris cloud still climbing skyward in the distance.
The internal debate was over. Katharos had just declared war on the rest of humanity, and it was time to choose a side.
She started the motorcycle and revved the motor. Leaving the parking lot, she headed east, toward Baltimore. Toward Hillcrest. And perhaps the last fight of her life.
10
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
The first wave breached the gate at 8:31 PM Eastern Standard Time, precisely one minute after the first hydrogen bomb ever deployed against a living soul was detonated in Chicago.
Eugene had never witnessed bloodshed like this before. One thousand of the Afflicted had charged the building, sprinting past machine gun turrets on the east and west walls. Dozens of the assailants died within the first few seconds, but they surged relentlessly onward.
Eugene had deployed a dozen other deterrents—tear gas, stun grenades, microwave transmitters—but to no avail. The mob of attackers didn’t even slow down.
Nicole and Kacen, who were both manning remote-controlled miniguns mounted to the roof, began to tremble violently as they cut down the attackers by the hundreds. Hank and Yuri manned crew-serve guns near the doors, taking out the few Afflicted who managed to get close. But within two minutes, the adrenaline pumping through their systems began to affect their accuracy and their judgment. More and more rounds sailed past their targets, and Hank burned his left hand as he tried to replace the hot barrel of his weapon without donning protective gloves.
An increasing number of attackers were making it past the turrets, and Eugene had been forced to make a sickening decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Hillcrest was fortified with next-generation defenses for nearly every possible scenario—including a massive ground assault. Construction-grade lasers had been mounted along the walls, twelve inches above the ground, aimed outward. They formed a brutal and inhumane defensive grid, but when a man wearing a suicide vest destroyed one of the miniguns on the roof, Eugene knew he had no choice. He activated the lasers. And despite his assurances that these attackers were no longer “human,” he felt a haunting, sickening shame when the Afflicted began to scream.
The lasers sliced through every one of the Afflicted within two hundred feet of the building. The wounded and dead who were already on the ground were cut cleanly in half, from head to toe. Those still standing suffered amputations of both legs, just below their knees. They fell to the ground, shrieking in agony.
Eugene closed his eyes, trying and failing to force the images of the dying men out of his mind. At most, they would suffer for ten minutes before bleeding out, and the hellish shrieks would stop. But before thirty seconds had passed, Eugene knew he couldn’t endure the tormenting moans any longer. He activated the laser grid a second time, overheating its semiconductors and rendering it useless for ten minutes. An instant later, the screaming stopped.
The computer tablet slid from Eugene’s grip and clattered against the concrete floor. He stood with his hands at his sides, unable to move, staring straight ahead. His gaze was not focused on anything in his surroundings—he was looking into another world. One without violence or death.
The proximity alarms began to blare, warning of a second wave. Eugene knelt, and with a trembling hand, grasped his rifle.
So…much…blood…
Hank leaned over a stack of sandbags and retched. Acidic bile and saliva formed long strands and hung from his lips as he heaved over and over. His stomach was empty—had been empty all day—but still his abdominal muscles spasmed over and over again.
Someone was shouting and the proximity alarm was wailing, but he paid them no notice. All he could think of was the red viscera outside the bay door and the stabbing pain in his stomach.
He pinched his eyes shut to keep them from popping out of his skull as he coughed. It felt like he was going to dry-heave himself to death, and then someone dumped ice-cold water down the back of his shirt collar.
“Get it together, Hank,” Eugene Carver said, grasping his shoulders and squeezing tight. “There’s another wave inbound; we have to hold them off until the laser grid can recharge.”
“I—I can’t,” Hank managed to say.
“Yes, you can. Get your rifle up and squeeze the trigger. I don’t even care if you hit anything, just aim your barrel outside and start throwing lead.”
A man was running toward the door, twirling a broken board above his head. Hank swallowed and aimed his weapon. The reticle bounced wildly, and his finger hesitated above the trigger. Through the magnified optic, Hank could clearly see the man he was about to kill.
Eugene seemed to read his mind because he said, “Your reticle. Focus on your reticle, not the target.”
The rifle bucked against Hank’s shoulder, and the high-velocity round missed its target by fifteen feet. Hank swallowed his embarrassment and was trying to line up his next shot when the man with the board pitched over backward.
“Good!” Eugene shouted before engaging another target. “Do it again, but faster.”
Hank tapped the trigger, missing another shot. He fired again without compensating for recoil, and his second round soared high above the streets of Baltimore.
“Atta boy,” Eugene encouraged him. “Keep going. Keep the pressure on.”
Hank took a deep breath, leveled his rifle, focused on the reticle, and squeezed the trigger. This time, his armor-piercing round tore through his target’s sternum and knocked the man to the ground.
“Great shot, kid,” Nicole called out to him from somewhere to his right. “Keep going. And don’t forget to reload.”
It almost sounded like she was patronizing him, but a few seconds later, he was glad for the advice. The bolt in his rifle locked back, but in his hurry to take down more targets, he kept on pressing the trigger. Three seconds passed before he realized his rifle was dry, and he fumbled with a spare magazine, turning it around twice in his hand before inserting it.
“Charlies Two and Three, cover down on the bay door!” Eugene shouted. “Don’t let anything through!”
The androids reached the bay door with two long strides. They each pinned a shoulder against the wall and fired at the oncoming horde.
Their efficiency was at once mesmerizing and horrifying. The androids fired head shots, one after the other, at a rate of about three rounds per second.
Hank relaxed a little; every time he tried to line up a shot, the androids beat him to it. He tilted his head away from his optic and watched. It didn’t seem fair to keep mowing their attackers down when they were armed with nothing but clubs and knives, but he was thankful for the androids nonetheless. In the end, Hank just wanted to stay alive and keep Felicity safe.
He frowned. Keep everyone safe. As long as everyone in the building was safe, he could put up with the guilt of hiding behind an unfair advantage.