ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) (23 page)

Jeremy
was falling. That was the plan—or, if not a plan, at least the general idea. It
was the best he could do under the circumstances. There wasn’t time for much
else.

He
got the call from Nyx while he was still doubled-over on the sixty-eighth floor
trying to breathe. Honestly, even now, he wasn’t sure of exactly what she said,
but he remembered the strain in her voice—the desperation. And then he was
moving, running back up the stairs, and his only concern was getting that beast
Titan away from his team.

He
kicked open the door to the observation deck and hit Titan hard and fast. He
took him right through the window, and now they were falling. That was the
idea.

For
the first couple of seconds, after they broke through the window and fell,
Titan and Jeremy had been tangled together. Jeremy had wrapped his arms around
Titan's waist, but now their momentum pulled them apart. Titan was falling more
than a dozen meters to the right.

Jeremy
felt a quick pang of guilt. He never wanted to kill the man. He thought he
could zero out his gravity and save them both. The fall would be harmless, but
that wouldn't work now—not with Titan so far away. Jeremy closed his eyes,
trying to forget the man next to him.

There
was something almost peaceful about the fall. The static rush of wind around
his face and ears obliterated any other sound. It all became white noise, and
then the white noise disappeared as well. Jeremy opened his eyes again, spread
out his arms, and zeroed out his gravity. His downward momentum slowed to
almost nothing. He was a feather floating down to earth.

But
Titan kept falling. He hit the southwest plaza, and Jeremy could hear the sound
of impact high above the ground. It was loud—almost the same as an
explosion—only somehow duller; there was no sharp retort after the initial
crash.

Jeremy
could see a thin cloud of gray dust rising over the street below, and through
the haze he could see a crater. The red bricks of the plaza were tossed aside,
scattered in every direction, and the brown earth was visible underneath. It
was impossible for Jeremy to tell how deep the crater was—he was falling
directly over top of it—but it was wide, maybe 18 feet across, and at the
center of the crater he could see the twisted body of Titan. Then he saw the
body move.

All
at once, a dozen voices crackled over the radio:

“
He’s
standing up! I repeat, he’s standing up!
”

“
Titan’s
moving!
”

“
Subject’s
still alive!
”

Ellison’s
voice cut through them all, “Blue Team, move out of the lobby and engage Titan.
G-Force, what’s your status?”

Jeremy
pressed the contact mic against his throat. "I’m falling toward the plaza.
I see Titan under me."

"You
need to get down there and re-engage Titan!"

Jeremy
looked down at the plaza. Titan was back on his feet now, standing outside of
the crater, waiting.

Lara’s
voice broke over the radio, “Don’t do it, G-Force. Ignore that order. Let him
go.”

“What?”
Ellison’s voice exploded of the receiver.

“I
said let him go,” Lara shouted back, defiant now. “Let him get away. There’s
nothing more we can do.”

“Mirror,
end your transmission. G-Force, re-engage. That’s your order,” Ellison growled.

“Jeremy,
if you go down there, he’ll kill you. Just let him go.” Lara’s voice was razor
thin. Then silence.

Jeremy
looked down. The doors to the tower kicked open, and two lines of men snaked
out across the plaza. They flanked out wide on either side of Titan, their
M-4’s raised and ready.

A
low voice came over the radio, “
Do not fire unless engaged. I repeat, do not
fire unless engaged. Keep him on the plaza.
”

Then
Titan was done waiting. He charged at one of the lines, grabbing the first man
by the throat and lifting him off his feet. He kicked the second man in the
chest and swung his left into the third man’s face. Then he slammed the first
man down against the bricks.

The
M-4 rifles lit up, three round bursts singing in rapid succession. Jeremy could
see the orange sparks falling off of Titan’s skin. They may as well have been
gnats popping against a windshield.

A
black SUV raced onto the plaza, screeching to a stop just feet away from Titan.
Men with body armor and submachine guns jumped out. Titan wheeled around to
face them. He kicked at one of the open doors before the last soldier could get
out. It pinned the man against the side of the SUV, nearly cutting him in half.

Then
Titan stepped around to the front of the vehicle. He crushed his metal hands
down through the hood, torqued his body hard to the right, and the whole thing
swung up into the air. Then he let go, and for a second, the SUV was flying. It
landed on the plaza and rolled side over side, a two-ton bowling ball aimed at
the second line of soldiers.

It
all happened so fast that there was no time for the men to escape, so they did
all that they could. They dove face-first to the ground.

Then
there was no time to think—no time to answer Lara or Ellison. Jeremy dropped.
He hit the plaza and started running. He met the SUV just in front of the line
of soldiers, lowering his shoulder and plowing full speed into the vehicle.
There was a loud crunch of crushing metal, but it worked. It stopped the car
just short of the soldiers.

Jeremy
stepped back and looked down at the men lying prone on the ground in front of
him. One by one they lifted their heads, each man realizing he wasn’t dead.
Then they looked up at Jeremy.

“Run!”
Jeremy had no authority to give the men orders—he knew that—but they listened
anyway. The soldiers scrambled to their feet and ran for the far line of cop
cars. Whatever happened next with Titan, it would be on Jeremy alone.

He
looked across the plaza. Twenty yards away, Titan had stopped his assault on
the remaining soldiers. He was standing motionless, his metal fists clenched,
staring across at Jeremy. Everyone else on the plaza had stopped too. Most
didn’t have a choice. Jeremy could see their bodies sprawled and twisted across
the ground. Some were obviously dead. Others were too hurt to move, but even
the men who were still upright had stopped firing their rifles. They used the
moment’s lull to back away, running for the line of police cars on the street.
They must have known there was nothing more they could do. Jeremy knew it too.

Titan
squared his shoulders. He was ready.

Jeremy
waved him on.

Then
Titan charged. He closed the twenty yards between them in a breath and threw a
wild right cross at Jeremy’s head.

Jeremy
slipped the punch and countered with a right of his own to Titan's body. It
landed hard against his metal ribs—a heavy, solid punch.

Jeremy
knew his gravity had been up from stopping the SUV. It still was—he could tell
that much—but as he threw the punch, he blew out a quick breath and raised his
gravity even more, all of it centered on his right fist. It was every ounce of
the effort he gave in the tower to stop the explosion. It was more.

As
Jeremy’s right hand connected, Titan doubled over. Jeremy threw another punch—a
quick left hook. It landed on Titan's back, at the kidneys. Titan swung his arm
back across his body. Jeremy ducked. Then he lifted an uppercut into Titan's
chin. The metal-skinned Anom staggered back. Then he fell.

Jeremy
laughed to himself; he understood it now. "You've never been in a real
fight in your life, have you?"

Titan
was struggling to gain his feet.

Jeremy
bounced back and forth on his toes like a boxer. "You ready for round
two?"

Titan
charged at him again, putting all his weight behind a right cross. Jeremy read
it all the way. He parried the punch aside and threw another right uppercut
into Titan's midsection. Then a quick left jab to the face. A right hook to the
ribs. Another hook to the side of the head. Titan was reeling. Left jab. His
metal face snapped back. Right cross to the jaw, and Titan fell again.

Jeremy
danced away, back to his corner, waiting for the ten count; he was starting to
enjoy this.

Titan
climbed back to his feet. He was slower this time—unsteady. Jeremy had hurt him.

Titan
staggered forward, staring down at the bricks on the plaza. That’s when Jeremy
noticed the man at the metal giant’s feet. Titan saw him too. It was one of the
wounded soldiers. Jeremy hadn’t paid any attention to the man before—there were
so many laid out across the bricks—but this one tried to move away. All he
really managed was a half-groan, half-gurgling noise from his throat as he
rolled to his side. That was all Titan needed. He kicked the man in the face,
and the soldier's head snapped back in a spray of blood and bone. Then he was
still.

Titan
had killed before—the evidence of that littered the ground—but this was
different. It was a show of strength—a demonstration of his cruelty.

Then
any conscious thought or reason was gone. Jeremy couldn't think. Everything was
emotion. Raw. Burning. Then cold. Jeremy closed the distance between them.

Titan
threw a right roundhouse punch.

Jeremy
raised his left arm and blocked it. The impact should have shattered the bone
in his forearm. Jeremy barely felt it. He grabbed Titan by the wrist before he
could pull back his arm. Then Jeremy jumped, and as he landed, he punched his
fist down against Titan's elbow. His gravity spiked, and his fist didn't stop.
There was a high-pitched shriek of snapping metal, and Titan’s arm severed at
the joint.

Titan
recoiled and collapsed to the ground, writhing back and forth over the plaza
bricks as he waved his broken stump of an arm in the air.

Jeremy
looked down at his own left hand. He still held the other half of Titan’s arm
by the wrist. He threw it away.

“Get
up.”

Titan
struggled back to his feet. The metal Anom punched again—a weak left jab.
Jeremy parried. Then he landed a heavy left hook to Titan's ribs. The giant
doubled over.

Jeremy
grabbed him by the arm and punched down on the back of his shoulder blade. As
soon as Jeremy hit, he could feel the metal give way, spreading thinner like a
baker kneading his fist into a lump of dough. Jeremy punched again. Then again.
The metal was singing now like steel under a blacksmith’s hammer, and then,
with a final shriek, Jeremy's fist punched down through Titan's shoulder and
out the other side. Titan wrenched back, only his left arm didn't move. The
metal sinews in the shoulder twisted and snapped, and with a final jerk, Jeremy
ripped the arm free from Titan’s body. Titan collapsed again, convulsing, his
head thrown back in a voiceless scream.

Jeremy
looked down at him. The metal Anom was rocking from side to side now, and the
sunlight bouncing off his skin reminded Jeremy of a hooked fish desperate to
find its way back to water. It was pitiful, and maybe in another time and place
that’s exactly what Jeremy could have felt. But not today. Today there was too
much pain—too much suffering. Titan would have to reap his share.

Jeremy
tossed the arm aside and reached down for Titan's ankle. He lifted up the leg,
and then he stomped his foot down on top of Titan's knee. There was a sick
crunch of folding metal. The leg buckled. Then it broke, bending up into the
air at a grotesque angle. Jeremy stomped his foot down again, and the leg
snapped at the joint.

Titan
had stopped moving now. Maybe he blacked out from the pain. Maybe, somehow, he
was dead. Jeremy didn't care—he wouldn't let himself care.

He
turned his back on the Anom and walked away, pressing the contact mic against
his throat. "This is G-Force. Titan is down."

Ellison
answered over the radio, "Copy."

He
wanted Lara to say something too—anything—but there was only silence.

Then
Jeremy felt empty—like everything he was had been poured out and now nothing
was left. There was no guilt. No remorse. No satisfaction. He knew he could
have put his fist through Titan’s skull and taken the Anom’s life. Or he could
have wrestled him to the ground and held him down and waited for help—maybe
that’s what he should have done—but he didn’t. He made his choice, and now he
would have to carry it.

Jeremy
pressed the mic against his throat. “This is G-Force. I’m off radio.”

“You
need—” Ellison started to bark another order, but Jeremy pulled the receiver
away from his ear before the major could finish. Then he ripped the contact mic
away from his throat, and he let them both drop.

Jeremy
walked back toward the tower, tired and alone.

Major
Ellison walked quickly through the white fluorescent halls of Fort Blaney, his
anger roiling just below the surface. He was late for a briefing, and he
despised the feeling. Even worse, he resented the implication. It all felt like
failure. Ellison had once told his men there were no excuses for lateness.
Either they failed to plan their schedule or they failed to execute that plan.
Either way, it was a failure—and it was theirs. Now he was the one who was
late, and the whole thing felt like a very public mistake.

Ellison
turned the corner in the hallway and reached the elevator. He jammed his thumb
against the button and waited. It felt like ants were crawling under his skin,
or like someone’s nails were scraping down a chalkboard. He couldn’t stand
still. He needed the elevator to be there already—but then Ellison forced
himself to take a breath.

He
was already late—nothing would change that now. Everyone else would simply have
to wait. And as for the implications of failure, anyone who knew the major
would have to draw some other conclusion. Ellison rarely made mistakes, and he
was never late. He took too much pride in himself to allow that to happen.
Today’s failure was beyond his control—a quirk of the new schedule.

It
had been little more than a week since the attack on Chicago, and Blaney was
finally regaining some sense of normalcy. It was a far cry from the atmosphere
on base when they first got back. In those first few days after the attack
everyone seemed to be running on adrenaline and caffeine, but now that raw emotion
was fading. People were getting back to just doing their jobs. That was the
power of routine. It possessed a gravity of its own that was hard to escape,
always pulling the men back to the task at hand.

Of
course not everything could go back to normal. Following Chicago, Mirror
recommended a temporary hiatus on Anom combat training. She argued they needed
the time to come to terms with what happened—with what they’d seen and done.
Ellison disagreed. He thought the team should double down on its training. Now
they understood the real threat they were facing, but Colonel McCann was
convinced otherwise. Combat training would resume early next week.

Ellison’s
schedule had changed as well. He was assigned a new daily briefing with Dr.
Barnes regarding his patients. It was a tedious assignment at best. Ellison
didn’t mind talking to Barnes in principle—there was actually a reason to talk
to the doctor thanks to the events in Chicago—but daily?

After
the first three days of listening to the same litany of vital statistics,
treatments, and prognoses, Ellison had the broad strokes memorized. Maybe
meeting every other day would work just as well, but those weren’t his orders.
Colonel McCann ordered a daily briefing, and if nothing else, Ellison could
follow orders.

The
elevator doors opened, and Ellison stepped inside. He pressed the button for
the eighth floor, and the car began to climb.

Of
course meeting with Barnes wasn’t the problem—not today. The real problem was
Special Agent Hayden. The man had no regard for anyone beside himself—that much
was obvious. Why else would he schedule a briefing for 0930 if not to cause as
much disruption as possible? The fact that Hayden’s “briefing” was little more
than a glorified meet and greet only made matters worse.

Ellison
requested to be excused from the briefing, but McCann denied the request—end of
story. Instead, Ellison had to change his own routine. He shortened his morning
briefing with Captain Reyes in the command center and rescheduled his briefing
with Dr. Barnes from 0930 to 0900. That
should
have given him plenty of
time, but then a flurry of messages referencing the Red Moon and Chicago were
flagged overnight, and Reyes took the time to present each and every one. Now
Ellison was late for his meeting with Barnes.

The
elevator doors opened again, and Ellison stepped out. Dr. Barnes was waiting
for him. The man looked tired, but as far as Ellison was concerned, the doctor
always looked tired. He had heavy bags under both of his eyes, thin, white hair
on top of his head, and his mouth was held partway open so the air would wheeze
over his teeth every time he took a breath.

When
Ellison stepped from the elevator, Barnes shifted his weight from one foot to
the other. That was it—the only acknowledgment of Ellison’s arrival. There was
no salute or words of greeting. He didn’t even smile. He was waiting for the
major to blink first.

Ellison
bristled. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“What
kept you?” Barnes’ voice coughed out like wood running over sandpaper.

The
anger bubbling under Ellison’s skin felt suddenly red-hot, but he knew better
than to show it here. Screaming at the doctor now would amount to little more
than a tantrum, and Ellison didn’t have the time. His anger could wait.

“What’s
your report today?”

“Come
with me.” Barnes turned and started down the hallway. Ellison followed. They
stepped through the first door on the left.

Inside
the room, Ellison could hear the electronic beeps and the mechanical whirs of a
dozen machines. There were indicator lights and monitors and tubes and bags all
surrounding the bed at the center of the room, and lying on the bed, was Talon.

Talon’s
eyes were closed and bruised, colored a deep purple that faded into
yellow-green. His nose was swollen too from where it had been broken, although
Ellison thought it was less puffy than the day before. A white gauze bandage
twined around his head like a turban, and ventilator and feeding tubes were
taped down to his face. Both of his arms were out from under the sheets. On his
left, IV tubing ran up his arm and a pulse oximeter clipped over his index
finger. On the other side, Talon’s right hand was missing entirely, and the
stump of his wrist was wrapped in more white gauze.

Dr.
Barnes pulled the chart from the foot of the bed and began his recitation.
“Talon’s vital signs remained unchanged over night. We continue to monitor
pressure in his brain and will keep him in an induced coma for the time being.
The amputation of the right hand continues to heal and shows no current signs
of infection. New x-rays were taken this morning of the skull fracture and the
spinal column.”

Barnes
turned to the wall. He flipped a switch, and a bright screen flickered on
behind the two x-rays. Ellison could see the pictures now. On the left side was
Talon’s head in profile, a thin jagged line running from the back of his skull
down towards his neck. It didn’t look like much—at least not to Ellison—but
according to Barnes if the fracture were any worse Talon would already be dead.
On the right side of the screen Ellison looked at the x-ray of Talon’s spine,
the individual vertebrae stacked one on top of another.

Barnes
said, “These new x-rays give us the clearest picture yet of Talon’s spinal
injury and the foreign object located around the T6 and T7 vertebrae.” Barnes looked
up from the chart and pointed to the x-ray of the spine; he traced his finger
in the shape of a rectangle around two of the vertebrae. “You can see the
outline of the object here.”

Ellison
looked closer. He could just make out the pale lines surrounding the bones.

“The
best we can tell, whatever this foreign body is, it completely encapsulates
those two bones. Now, curious enough, those also happen to be the two vertebrae
that were fractured in the event. You can see the breaks here.”

Ellison
didn’t bother to look; he knew this part of the diagnosis by heart and he was
ready for some real answers. “But what
is
the object? How did it get
there?”

Barnes
shrugged. “We still don’t know, Major, and we’re not poking around to find out.
Mirror thinks it may be one of his constructs, a part of his ability that he
put up at the last second to stay alive. That’s the best answer I’ve heard so
far, but who really knows?”

Ellison
seethed. It was the same answer to the same question he asked yesterday.
Following orders was one thing, but meeting with Dr. Barnes was fast becoming a
waste of his time. What’s more, Ellison suspected that Barnes was wasting his
time on purpose—he certainly wouldn’t put that kind of pettiness past the old
man—but he would deal with it all later. For now, he needed Barnes to move on.

“Can
we check the other patient, Doctor?”

Barnes
nodded. “This way.”

The
doctor turned and shuffled out of the room, across the hall, and into the next
door on the right. Ellison followed.

The
first thing the major noticed about this new room was the quiet. It was always
a stark contrast to the background noise filling Talon’s room. Here there were
no machines—no beeps and whirs. Everything was still. It was almost peaceful.

Ellison
looked over at the bed, and Titan’s metal body lying on the mattress. The Anom
was held down in place by thick leather straps crossing at his chest, waist,
and thighs, but Ellison knew that was all an illusion—a trick to calm the
nerves of Dr. Barnes and his staff. If Titan wanted to stand, those straps
would prove worthless, but there was no fight left in him. His right arm was
little more than a metal stump. His left arm was gone at the shoulder, and his
right leg ended at the knee. Still, even if he could stand and fight, Ellison
wasn’t sure that he would—not anymore. Titan had been catatonic since Chicago.

Mirror
was already in the room when they entered, standing over Titan and pressing
both of her hands down against his bronze chest. This was one of her duties now
too, trying to read the prisoner for information. So far it had proven useless.

As
Barnes and Ellison walked into the room, Mirror stepped away to face them.
“Morning, Doctor. Major.”

“Good
morning.” Ellison’s voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn’t have any
more time to waste on pleasantries. He needed this to be over. He turned back
to Barnes. “What’s new with this patient, Doctor?”

Barnes
reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.

Ellison
stopped him. “No. Just— Tell me what’s new.”

Barnes
stepped back, confused. “With the patient? Nothing.”

“Good.
And Mirror, did you find anything new?”

Mirror
shook her head. “No. He’s in there. I can feel him pushing back, but there’s
nothing new. He’s still spiked.”

Ellison
turned on his heels. “Good. Then we can—”

“Well,
there is something new,” Barnes interrupted. “It’s not technically the patient,
not anymore, but it’s new. Here, look at this.”

Barnes
turned around. On the counter, in front of the doctor, Ellison could see the
other half of Titan’s right arm—the half that got ripped off in Chicago. The
arm was huge. It filled the counter. The massive hand was open, facing up, and
on the other side of the arm, Ellison could see the jagged break where G-Force
had ripped it away.

Mirror
stepped forward to get a better look. Her perfume was distracting, and Ellison
didn’t have time to be distracted.

He
snapped at Barnes instead. “What are we looking at, Doctor?”

“We
discovered something. Thought you’d want to see it. We wanted to run some tests
on the amputated limbs this morning, and then this happened.”

Dr.
Barnes took his stethoscope from around his neck and held it out over the arm.
Then he let it drop. As soon as the rubber tubing fell against the palm of the
hand, the metal fingers snapped shut, squeezing the stethoscope as if they were
wringing a neck.

Barnes
chuckled, “Just so you know, detached limbs aren’t supposed to do that.”

 “Maybe
it’s a reflex or—” Ellison’s voice caught in his throat.

“Reflex?
No. Not like that.” Barnes shook his head. “Not this long after the event, and
not to that degree of movement. That there—that takes thought. That takes
control. We tested all three limbs and got the same result.”

Then,
for the first time all morning, Ellison smiled. “I want you to write up a
report on your findings, and I’ll brief the colonel. Continue testing, but now
we’re late for—”

“There
is one last thing,” Barnes interrupted again before Ellison could reach the
door. “Mr. Snyder, our patient in room seven… He says he’s allowed access to a
television. He says it’s provided for in his contract—whatever that means. I
told him I would bring it to your attention.”

Ellison
hesitated. “I’ll have to look into it.”

Then
the major turned and left the room. Mirror followed after him. She walked
half-a-step behind him all the way to the elevator. Why wouldn’t she? They were
both going to the same place. They were both late for the same meeting. When
the doors opened, they both stepped inside. Then, for the first time in over a
week, they were alone together.

Ellison
turned to look at her. “It’s been a while.”

Mirror
kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “I know. I told you last week I needed
time. I need my space. I need to come to terms with—”

“Terms
with what happened. Yeah, you told me. That’s why I backed off.”

Mirror
looked sideways, catching his eye. “I know you have, and I appreciate that.”