Breaking Through Read online

  “I need to get me one of those.” John said, brushing himself off.

  Michael grinned, “Tell me about it. You okay?”

  John glanced at the buildings around them and said, “Yeah…yeah, I think so.”

  Dull orange light from two street lamps illuminated the area, throwing long shadows down the avenue. A pile of burnt, twisted metal lay in a heap to John’s right, all that remained of what looked like a four-door car. A thin layer of dirt and grime covered everything; every now and then, a gust would blow clouds of dust across the street. Trash and chunks of composite from the surrounding buildings littered the ground.

  “Sorry about the landing.” Michael shrugged and pulled open his jacket, “Rig’s only built for one.” Underneath his dark green jacket, a mechanical harness was strapped around Michael’s torso and waist. An upside-down triangle was the centerpiece of the rig, strapped to his body just below his chest. It glowed a dull yellow.

  “Not a problem,” John said, getting to his feet.

  Tom appeared next to them, floating effortlessly down through thin air. When his feet touched pavement the pulsing yellow and green lines slowed and eventually faded all together. He was focused on the rooftops surrounding them, “We need to get moving.”

  “I know.” Michael was checking the display on his wrist. “Could you tell how far we were off?”

  “A few miles at least, Capital Building is that way.” He pointed off to his left.

  Michael glanced up and down the street, then checked the small display on his wrist. “Damn. There’s no way we can make the back-up rendezvous from here, they’re going to have to come get us.”

  Tom scanned the surrounding rooftops, “Yeah, if the Rats don’t find us first.”

  Michael nodded, then motioned into the air above them. “Check it out.”

  “Right,” Tom answered, pulling a flap of his jacket aside with his left hand and tapping the triangular harness control with the other. Bright yellow energy rippled out along the harness-lines wrapped around his body, followed by the alternating green and yellow pulses that increased speed as he lifted off the ground. John watched him fly off, wondering just what kind of technology these people were capable of.

  He caught sight of one of the gaping holes, blasted out of the building next to him then realized there were several jagged holes in several buildings. As he took in his surroundings, it reminded him a war-zone. Bullet holes scarred walls and traced lines across the sidewalks and street. Dark shadows of fire damage stained the faded walls around the blast holes and open windows and doors.

  “Jesus.” John’s voice was a whisper, awed by the destruction around him, “What happened?”

  “War, man,” Michael said, “and this is the good part of Old Town.” He motioned for John to follow.

  “You’re kidding?” John said matching Michael’s pace.

  “Over in Sector Three, you can barely tell there was ever a city there.” He shrugged. “Kind of sad, when you think about it. They were the first to stand up against the Regency and they were decimated because of it.”

  They stepped around a large blast hole in the pavement, the light from the streetlamp above refracting in the water puddled within. “The Regency?”

  Michael spread his arms wide in reverence. “The change for the people.” He declared in a mocking tone, then continued levelly, “Such bullshit. I never understood why so many believed that crap. Hell, they still do.” He motioned to a large blown out section of building as they passed. “This is the change we got: years of civil war and death.”

  John considered the jagged opening. “I know the feeling.”

  “Is this what it’s like on the other side, too?” The disappointment in his voice was almost depressing.

  “No,” John answered, shaking his head. “It’s not this bad—well, not where I’m from anyway. But there are places.”

  “I think I’d like to see that side someday.”

  “I hope—whoa!” John yanked his pulser from its holster on his right thigh and had it leveled without thinking. “What the fuck?”

  Michael started and pulled his own pistol, spinning around to where John was pointing his. Two haggard looking people were standing in the entryway to what could have been a luxury hotel at one time. Even though they were partially hidden in the shadow of a twisted awning, protruding awkwardly over the sidewalk, John could see their clothes were dirty and torn. Dark smudges on their faces were a good indication that they hadn’t showered in weeks. Maybe even months. The shadows cast by the streetlight above gave them an eerie, ghost-like appearance.

  Almost as soon as the two men noticed them, they vanished, silently retreating into the interior of the building.

  “Damn it,” Michael cursed and jammed his weapon back into its holster on his waist.

  John held his pulser steady, eyes focused on the doorway. “What?”

  “Dusters,” he said, “Come on, we need to get off the street.”

  John lowered his pulser slightly, but hesitated. He glanced at Michael, then back to the entrance. It remained empty. He was still trying to come to terms with being in another world, and not understanding what was going on around him was unsettling. The fact that he didn’t know this man added to his frustration. Could he really believe what he was saying? He didn’t have any reason not to. After all, on the face of everything he had saved his life. Saved him from what, was the question.

  “You coming?” Michael asked.

  He checked the empty doorway for a third time, lowered his pulser, and then started after Michael. They continued up the street for another block, then turned onto a wide alley that ran the length of two six-story brick buildings. The alley was in worse shape than the street, lined with trash, both loose and bagged; the smell of waste stung his nostrils. They made their way around an old rusted-out dumpster, overflowing with years of discarded waste, and came to a T-junction where another alleyway branched off in both directions.

  Michael stopped in the intersection and contemplated which turn to take. A soft clicking echoed through the alley as several small animals scurried away from the intruders.

  John grimaced and covered his nose, trying to block out the putrid smell. “Look, I know this is probably not the right time, but I’m having trouble wrapping my head around this whole thing. I take it Rats are bad, but Dusters are bad too?”

  Michael chuckled. “Well, that depends. One-on-one Dusters are just a nuisance, but get them together in big groups and you could be in for some trouble. It’s the Rats you’ve got to watch out for. They’re well-equipped and extremely motivated.”

  “Motivated to do what?”

  “To get paid,” Michael replied, turning right and motioning for John to follow.

  “What do they sell?”

  “Well, they’ll sell anything they can make a profit on, but they make most of their money on people.”

  “What like slaves?”

  Michael gave a half-hearted chuckle. “No, I’m sure the poor souls that get picked up would prefer that to what actually happens.”

  “So what then?”

  “Huh?” Michael asked.

  “What happens to them?”

  “No one knows exactly. Genetic experimentation, alteration, no one ever comes back. Of course, the Regency denies everything, and condemns the kidnappings, but everyone knows they’re behind it all. Nothing happens here without their say-so.”

  The man sounded sincere, but it all seemed too much for John to believe. Then again, why would this man lie to him? He could have just left him on the platform to deal with whoever they were on his own.

  John felt something brush up against his leg. He jumped to his feet, and cried out in surprise, pointing his pulser at the trash covered alley floor. “What the fuck!” he cursed, heart racing.

  A small creature, about the size of a possum, scurried along the wall squealing wildly as it moved away. Covered in thick brown fur, six leathery legs propelled it along the filt
h-covered pavement. A long spiny tail stretched out behind it, a small pointed snout was the only indication of a head.

  Michael shushed him from across the alley. “Relax man, it’s just a gigret.”

  John scoffed at him. “Yeah right. Relax. Sure.” He took a few steps back and watched as the animal disappeared into a pile of trash.

  Michael stifled a laugh. “Come on.”

  They had made it another fifteen feet when the sound of muffled gunshots echoed in the distance. Michael cursed and pulled his gun. John, suddenly very aware that his Optics weren’t providing him with any data, followed suit, and they both crouched low on either side of the alley.

  “What is it?” John asked.

  Michael raised a finger to his lips in response, eyes scanning ahead. More shots rang out, closer than the last, and John thought they had a higher pitch to than the previous shots. Smaller maybe.

  Several more gunshots rang out, even closer than the last. John immediately started looking around for some sort of cover; however, the trash-filled alley provided no such comforts. They were sitting ducks, and he wondered if the other man realized that as well.

  He was about to say as much when several rounds slammed into the top of a building ahead of them. Plumes of dust and composite shot out into the air and tiny bits of shrapnel rained down into the alley.

  “What the hell are they shooting at?” John asked, moving beside Michael.

  Michael craned his head to look around the dumpster, and after a second pointed down the alley ahead of them. “There.” A figure flew across the alley, a mass of yellow and green lines arcing through the air. It touched on the side of a seven-story building, taking long focused strides across the dark grey composite.

  Tom jumped a gap between buildings and the composite behind him erupted in small explosions that snaked along the wall after him. Puffs of debris spat out into the air behind him, filling the alley with a dusty haze. He took two long strides then pushed off, launching himself through the air and across the alley.

  He flipped over and landed feet first on the building above them, John craned his neck hard to see. Tom was pointing back the way they’d come. “Get the hell out—”

  A roaring blast of engine wash silenced the rest of his warning as light spilled into the alley ahead of them. The skiff flew sideways over the rooftops, its spotlight searching back and forth. Its presence turned the quiet alley into a maelstrom of wind and trash.

  Michael and John fell over each other, scrambling to get away as the skiff advanced. Tom pushed off the building above them. Bullets slammed into the grey composite walls where he’d landed, only just missing him. After a few steps, John and Michael gained their footing and took off at a full sprint back the way they’d come as Tom flew across the alley above them.

  The spotlight swung down to focus on the two fleeing men, and just as they reached the intersection, the alley floor erupted behind them. John lowered his shoulder and plowed into Michael sending them both tumbling sideways into the alley, out of the line of fire. A path of small eruptions chewed down the middle of the alley as the skiff shot past them; hot exhaust blasted their huddled bodies as it flew by.

  John pushed himself to his feet, spitting dirt and dust from his mouth. The skiffs engines roared behind them, he knew they didn’t have much time. He reached down and pulled Michael to his feet, desperately searching for a way out. The alley stretched out ahead of them, but lead only to the orange glow of the street.

  Something dropped out of the air in front of them. “Move!” Tom screamed then charged down the alley.

  The skiff crossed over the alley above them, engine exhaust turning the alley into a tumultuous gale of hot wind and dirt and trash. A blast of hot dust and air slapped across John’s face, his eyes jammed shut but he kept moving. His feet caught against something solid and he let out a started cry as he toppled forward. He landed hard on his side as the skiff crossed over and disappeared above another building.

  John felt hands grabbing ahold of him and heard Michael’s voice beside him scream, “Tom!”

  John felt himself being lifted off the ground and moved quickly to get his feet underneath him. He coughed hard, wiped dust off his face and saw Tom stop just shy of the street. He’d lost his knit hat at some point, his blond hair whipped wildly in the wind.

  “How many grenades you have left?” Michael shouted.

  An eyebrow rose. “One…why?” He made the connection a second later, and said, “You’re not serious.”

  “It worked at Holbridge.”

  “Yeah, but that was…”

  Michael waved a hand through the air. “It’s the same principle.” He leaned over, hands on his knees. “We can’t keep running like this.”

  Shadows danced out in the street as the skiff turned to come back around. Tom glanced from the Michael, to the street, then back again. He shrugged, “What the hell. You want left or right.”

  “Buyer’s choice.”

  “This is not how I saw this night going.” Tom pulled a small round object from his belt and turned toward the street. He glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Don’t be late.”

  “Don’t miss.”

  After a long calming breath, Tom slapped his harness and leapt out into the street.

  John was about to ask Michael to explain what Holbridge meant when he felt Michael’s hand on his back, shoving him forward, out of the alley. “Go!”

  John stumbled and cursed, wishing these men could do something other than shove him around without warning. He felt lost and helpless, and for someone used to being in control, it was a horrible feeling. Michael stepped around him, turned to the right and raced up the street. John cursed again and sprinted after him. He glanced back over his shoulder and watched as Tom shot across the alley, the skiffs blinding light tracking him up the side of a red brick office building.

  The loud exhaust from the engines muffled the gunfire and Tom launched himself into the sky as bullets chewed into the composite behind him. He moved fast and disappeared into the night. The cannons fell silent and searchlight panned around trying to reacquire him.

  John and Michael had made it half a block when the searchlight fell over them. As shadows danced in front of them, Michael pointed across the street and shouted, “Split!”

  John performed the unrehearsed maneuver with machine like precision, operating in full survival mode; years of military training pushing him hard. He reached the far side of the avenue a second later, a glance to his right saw Michael working hard to keep pace. It was impossible to keep a straight course on either side of the avenue. Dodging around burnt out wrecks and countless years of discarded rubble slowed their progress significantly, but it was these same hazards that played a big role in their survival.

  Blasts from the cannons echoed behind them and pavement and rubble began to disintegrate around the fleeing men. The CHOOF CHOOF CHOOF of the cannons was the only thing that John McNeal was conscious of as he zig-zagged down the street. He passed what could have been a cafe, dodged around several rusted and broken metal chairs and tables, tipped over and piled up on themselves, and bolted into the another alley without looking to see where Michael had gone. Loud metal twangs ripped through the air behind him as projectiles chewed threw the long forgotten furniture.

  After shouting for John to cross the street, Michael had continued on, searching desperately for cover. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John dodge into the alley and watched as several metal chairs were thrown into the air by the onslaught of auto-cannon fire. He definitely wasn’t in as good of shape as John, but he did have one slight advantage. He bounded forward, over a fallen streetlight; its decorative accents bent and twisted, and saw his escape.

  An alley, almost directly across from where John had made his turn, separated a plain storefront and a tall office building, just ten feet ahead. An old flatbed transport truck, sitting on three bare and twisted axles, spanned the side walk just outside the alley. He made a quic
k calculation, stutter-stepped then jumped for the back of the bed. As his feet touched, he coiled down and as he pushed off, slapping the rig as he sprung into the alley.

  Seconds after entering the darkness of the alley, the truck behind him ripped apart. Twisted metal and chunks of composite exploded into the air. His leg erupted in pain as a searing piece of shrapnel tore into his thigh and flipped him through the air. At the same time, his rig began to fail, and his momentum carried him almost twenty feet back into the alley before landing hard on the ground. He rolled and slid through loose trash then slammed against a rusty storage container.

  In the avenue, the cannons went silent and the skiff’s engines whined as it moved to pursue. The searchlight cut through clouds of dust rising into the air, looking for targets. The skiff had closed about half of the distance when Tom dropped out of the night sky above it.

  He touched down just behind the clear bubble of the cockpit, where two men in black uniforms worked the controls, intently focused on the avenue ahead. Hunters completely oblivious to the fact that they had just become the hunted. He moved quickly over to the right side intake port, pulling his last remaining grenade from its pouch on his belt. He jammed his thumb down on the arming button an orange light appeared on the top of the device.

  Two more steps and Tom was within arm’s reach of the whining turbine. He took a second to scan the street below, then opened his fist. The orange light flashed red. He counted to three and dropped the grenade. As soon as it left his hand, he threw himself off the skiff and into the air. The grenade denoted a second later, ripping the engine apart. The shockwave flipped Tom over in mid-air, knocking him off course and toward a cluster of antennas and communications equipment affixed a roof ahead of him. He clinched his teeth and twisted his body hard to the left, missing the thin piece of aluminum by a matter of inches.