Intended Extinction (26 page)

THREE YEARS AGO

It was
winter
in Manhattan. Tiny snowflakes danced in front of Curtis Mundson’s nose and collected on his shoulders. He stood upon an ancient church balcony, overlooking a monolithic courtyard. The peaceful serenity calmed his stressed and overrun body. For once, he had time to enjoy what beauty was left in the world. He let out a silent breath, watching it drift into the air. His leg shook anxiously.

Ryan was five minutes late.

“Ryan,” he called into his two-way radio, “what’s going on?”

Nothing but emptiness came from the handheld receiver.

He grew nervous and started to look around. Things were quiet, and the sound of his shuffling footsteps echoed across the gray courtyard below. The crunch of snow underneath always made him cringe and sprout goose bumps.

As he tensely observed the buildings in sight, the gift of Edge rose within him and he had to step aside. After retching, he noticed the flecks of deep crimson dyeing his woolen glove and the snowy banister. He cursed and got himself together again, looking back at the target.

A large, gray structure was in view. With seven stories, it made a pretty sizeable representation to the other buildings around. The traffic was slow as people occasionally meandered in and out.

But none of them were Ryan.

“
Ryan
,” he almost shouted into the device, growing increasingly frustrated.

They were already in over their heads. Today, they were pushing the limits.

A flash of two black dots rushed into his peripherals. He focused in on two security guards running into the east entrance of the building; they were yelling something into their communication devices.

Uh oh,
he thought, as he unclipped the maroon bag at his feet, taking out the distraction.

“Here goes nothin’,” he said under his breath, and twisted a knob on the board.

The ground shook as a grand, orange-yellow plume of destruction came from across the street. A few seconds later, people started rushing out of the building. Geno Security was piling out of the glossy behemoths, trying to direct people and figure out what had happened.

Perfect. He should have enough time now.

“What the hell was that, Curtis?!” whispered a harsh voice from the other end of the radio. “I’m not finished!”

Curtis quickly grasped the receiver and said, “I had to! They were coming in the building, probably looking for you. I couldn’t risk it. You gotta hurry.”

A silent curse came from the other end. “All right, I think I can swing it. Just get into position.”

“Good, then
hurry
. ‘Edgerton’ is back, and I’m out of ‘pods,” finished Curtis

“Your nicknames are getting worse,” Ryan responded amiably.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Curtis clapped the radio to his belt and gathered the rest of his things. After slinging the bag over his shoulder, he tore down the stairs and exited the church building. He felt the brisk wind on his face as he walked through the back of the courtyard, rounded another corner, and made his stake on a park bench. A few seconds later, Ryan emerged from the south entrance and flashed a grin.

It was a success.

——————

“So what
is
this?” asked Curtis, shuffling through papers and taking a swig of some poorly-made hot chocolate.

“All of the good stuff is on the flash drive; I’ve got it running here,” said Ryan, coming across the floor, hair slicked up like some greaser from the 1950’s. He still had most of his disguise on: deadly blue contacts, a scarred, fake ear, and a dress shirt and slacks.

“You look stupid, get out of that,” chided Curtis, giving Ryan a bewildered look.

“Shut up, look here,” he retaliated. Their banter was an active ingredient in their relationship.

They were sitting in a fairly lit apartment. It was trashed with all sorts of junk. There were a couple of dusty couches, a coffee table that was cracked in four different places, and a giant bookcase, filled with nothing but miscellaneous papers. A widescreen Fuse hung from one of the corners of the room, facing the couches. Remnants of food were scattered throughout the dingy apartment, and it smelt like old, musty wood.

Along the walls, on top of the coffee table, and cluttering the bar were various weapons. All were stolen, and all had plans to be put to use.

“Okay, here we go,” said Ryan, gazing down at the interface unit he was holding. A fluorescent blue screen emitted itself from the handheld device. He flicked a few icons, and the same information showed up on the Fuse above.

They sat there, gathering information and discussing possible solutions for the next couple of hours. It was getting dark and the light from the screen was beginning to bug their eyes. Bloodshot and weary, the two leisurely got up to move around and take a break.

“Hey, did you see the ‘pods? I laid them out on the table,” called Ryan from the bathroom, scrubbing his face in the sink.

“Yep,” Curtis returned, opening the fridge.

A soft creak came from the living room.

The fridge door remained open as Curtis slowly slipped up against the wall. His senses were ablaze. The water from the bathroom faucet ran like white noise, but he knew Ryan wasn’t washing anything anymore. Someone was in their apartment. Curtis pulled the handgun from the back of his jeans.

As he inched his way closer, he saw the bathroom, with its door flung open. He could see Ryan’s reflection in the toothpaste spackled mirror. Ryan held his pistol at his leg, waiting for Curtis to make the first move. The blonde took a deep breath and closed his eyes, creating his split-second meditation—“dodging”, as Ryan called it.

Curtis opened his eyes in a flash, and sprang out, revealing the living room.

“I was wondering what took you so long,” said a raspy voice.

“Get on the ground!” shouted Curtis, who was flanked by Ryan.

The man before them was taut, holding one of their data chips in hand. He was tall, muscular, and held himself together with a prideful demeanor. He had lightning white hair, receding back. His outfit was some kind of stealth suit, made from a flexible metal material.

“Who are you?!” asked Ryan.

“Put down the weapons, please. I am unarmed.”

Curtis didn’t take his eyes off the target as sweat began to trickle down his temple.

“My name is Vane,” said the mysterious visitor. “And I have an offer for you two; an answer to all your questions.”

It was
one week
after the Underbed incident, and all I could do was sit and twiddle my thumbs.

The red dot, formerly known as Erin Hansen, crossed my vision on the travel-sized Fuse. She was smack dab in the heart of Manhattan—not to mention having just infiltrated Geno Security. And now she was being pursued by soldiers—ones that weren’t wearing conspicuous metal suits. With Vax ruling the world and people more active than ever, GenoTec couldn’t afford to traipse around anymore. The game had changed, and I was
so
ready to be done playing.

I was worried. If she was caught, it didn’t matter if this operation kept going—
I
wouldn’t. But I knew she was motivated beyond belief. This was the girl who dispatched Ames without a flinch. This was the girl who accepted the assignment without hesitation. This was Tara Tracer—the woman I loved.

Wow, those were strong words.

At least I think I did. I’ve never really loved anyone. I’ve had the thought for a while now, but it never really became apparent until the night after the Underbed went—well,
under
. I could still remember what it felt like to emerge from that tomb. I have to be careful when I think it, but I almost have to thank GenoTec. If we hadn’t had such a crappy day—filled with kidnappings and killings—then I don’t think Tara and I would have ever had that conversation we were saving. The conversation that had been replaying non-stop in my mind for the past five days.

Ugh . . . but how could I
ever
thank GenoTec?

I sighed and decided to think about my feelings some other time. Besides, Celia was starting to notice that I wasn’t even watching the screen anymore.

“Hey!” she yelled, startling me. She looked at me with wide eyes and shook her head, looking for an explanation.

I didn’t want to give into her “mom” attitude. “
Relax
. She’s doing fine.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Dodge.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Dodge called from the other room, “Yeah, it’s cool how you guys talk about me when I’m not there!”

Celia and I exchanged smirks just as Tara’s red dot disappeared.

“What the hell?!” I exclaimed, slamming my chair back onto all fours and nearly pressing my face against the screen—a large grid of Manhattan.

“Tara,” asked Celia, “what are you doing? What’s happened?”

“They’re using the same tracking method as us—I have to go dark,” responded Tara from what seemed like the other end of the world.

Celia and I both swore. Hell, “going dark” was only allowed in the movies.

“Bollis and Vexin are still a few minutes away—can you . . . she’s not listening.” Celia got up and started to fiddle with the interface module.

GenoTec had so many restrictions—down to the very wavelengths—that it was difficult to dance around them. We could have been viewing Tara from a satellite, but our resources were limited, especially now.

I paced back to the other room, passed Dodge, and looked out the window. Ever since we had come topside, I had this sickening feeling that GenoTec was always two steps behind us. I checked that damn window like I had OCD or something.

I listened to Celia inform Bollis and Vexin what had happened. It was the only thing comforting right now. As I let the words soothe my mental wounds, I observed our surroundings.

After the Underbed incident, we came to the surface prepared to fight our way to GenoTec HQ, and eventually save Justin and Vane. Well . . . there we were, a week later, with no Justin or Vane. As Justin would say, “a fuggin’ week.” I hated thinking about it.

We had stationed ourselves inside the abandoned Central Railroad Terminal above the Liberty Vista, and planned to stay there to conduct our operations. Unfortunately, GenoTec really covered their bases. We were ambushed and scattered, having to postpone Tara’s mission for a few days. I’d never been more exhausted in my life. Luckily for us—and thankfully for my teams’ brilliance—we found our way across Manhattan, all the way to the very lovely, extremely affordable Dustslum.

What was once known as Brooklyn, the Dustslum was the line—the border—of current civilization. It wasn’t just one place per se, but a general term for the outskirts. We were east of the Hudson, east of our target, and east of everything living. The Dustslum was a panoramic rabbit warren—a true favela. Every nook and cranny was filled with roads sprouting vegetation, wildlife prancing around like it was the friggin’ outback, and skeletal buildings as far as the eye could see. Everything was covered in rust and mold, vines and weeds. Best of all, you could find the lowliest forms of life here—the true outcasts; the ones who couldn’t even cut Edge society. Mostly on some form of illicit drug, those lunatics hoarded junk, pillaged homes, and vandalized anything to do with GenoTec. That was the Dustlum, our new home.

The only good thing about the godforsaken place was the cloak of invisibility it lent. For the better part of a week, GenoTec hadn’t touched us. We were hidden like rats—very cunning rats—constantly on alert. We had found this great townhome, raised above a bunch of other makeshift hovels, covered in aluminum and rusty metal. The place had already been a ghetto
before
Edge. We kept calling it a nest, because the roads were literally thirty feet below.

The window I checked every morning, mid-day, and evening, was a small slit that overlooked a large blanket of rooftops, nestled in the heart of the broken city. Far away, on the edge of the Jersey bay, lied out goal. Sticking out like a sore thumb, glinting and majestic, was the GenoTec Headquarters skyscraper. It glared at us every single day, reminding us of its victory. Reminding me how I would never forgive myself for letting them take Justin. No matter how much I hated him.

Today was a particularly muggy day in July. The streets seethed with fumes of stench and death, and everything just baked. I was thankful for our Undersuits being able to breathe so well, otherwise I would be like a potato out there. I scanned the hazy courtyard, hundreds of rigged rooftops that spanned most of the slum. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke, sang, or creaked. It was always a little eerie.

Dodge was cleaning a weapon behind me. “Don’t worry dude. She’s gonna be okay. Bollis’ll take care of her.”

“More like she’ll take care of
them
.”

“You’re right,” he chuckled.

He set the weapon down and joined me at the slotted window. I could still hear Celia tinkering away behind us. In fact, that was the only thing I could hear. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize how silent it was. Usually, something could be heard from the metal depths below our little nest, but something was up. Something was wrong.

I saw him. A tiny black dot, lifting his body over a small barrier and landing lightly onto a roof, fifty yards away.

“I guess our luck has run out,” I said, to which Dodge responded by collecting his Ramrod and opening a smaller hole in the siding.

“Celia,” he said, adjusting the sights. “We’re leaving.”

She emitted a frustrated curse, but went to work. I grabbed my gear, shoved my helmet onto my head, and opened the trap door in the corner by the small hallway. My hand rocketed backwards as a barrage of bullets came from below.

Damn it. So much for hiding.

As Dodge picked off a few targets, I dropped a grenade through the secret chute. The small shack quaked and tilted after the blast. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Three, four . . . five!” shouted Dodge.

“Celia! We gotta run!” I exclaimed, rushing over to help.

We grabbed the last interface device and zipped up the three backpacks. There was only one more way out of the crow’s nest—a small opening that drained into another townhome below us. We could use it as a slide.

I lifted the piece of metal covering the hole and saw two soldiers laying a booby trap at the bottom of the chute. I quickly unloaded my rifle, clipping one, while the other was blown away by his own explosive. The bomb ripped off the bottom of the chute, leaving a wide mouth into blackness.

“We’re blocked in!” I yelled back to Dodge.

“They got smart,” he said, running into the tiny room, magnetically planting the Ramrod onto his back and snatching his M580 from the corner.

“We’re not all out of options,” said Celia, shouldering her pack and ripping off a sheet of metal, covering a window.

Crap. The window?

Dodge helped her remove the metal and continued to break the glass, alerting the posse of guards below to our next plan. It didn’t take long before a new lashing of bullets whipped the tiny house, crumbling the surrounding metal. If all of the exits were blocked or demolished . . . what the hell were we going to do?

That was when I heard the whistling sound of an RPG.

The house rocked side to side from the RPG’s blast. Dodge was sent flying down the hallway. Celia managed to find herself underneath the table, while my back smashed against the nearby wall. I turned my head to see the large hole where the window used to be. More bullets showered the gape, so I quickly moved.

The nest was now no more than a loose tooth in a mouthful of razor sharp, metal teeth. Celia crawled out of hiding and wobbled to the other room, motivating me to follow. Before I could clear the threshold to the hallway, the house lurched forward, causing me to fall onto my back and slide down the length of the main corridor. My attempts to grab anything failed and the last thing I saw was Celia’s look of horror as my body smashed through the shabby wall and flew through the air.