I could see right away that the terrain on the screen was the terrain outside: the trees were dark green patches and the buildings were shapes outlined in red. The green dot—that was probably M-2 himself. The red dots were probably bio-heat readings—the Homelanders. There was no way to identify what the numbers were, but I was guessing they were probably M-2’s speed, height, blast energy, and number of tear-gas shots—something like that.
I glanced up. I couldn’t help myself. The timer was ratcheting rapidly down to 4:00.
Come on, I told myself, concentrate.
I looked down at the controller again.
According to my reading of the map, Milton Two was lying on the ground at the very edge of the ruined compound outside. When I tilted the controller, the green light stopped blinking and the numbers changed: M-2 was rising off the ground and taking flight. I quickly found I could move him by either tilting the device or touching the screen. And more. The moment he started moving, a small square window lit up in one corner of the screen. It was video—the point of view from the camera in M-2’s single eye: it showed what M-2 saw in front of him. There were also two red buttons that lit up on the bottom of the controller. The one on the right was to fire electronic blasts. The one on the left let loose tear gas.
Again, I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the clock: 3:56 . . . 3:55 . . . 3:54 . . . I seemed to feel every second dying inside me as it ticked away.
I glanced over at the monitors on the wall. I could see the Homelanders there. Three of them had stopped moving now. They had taken up positions, standing with their guns propped on their hips. They were guarding the area, waiting for the explosion that would destroy the bunker—and me, if I was still inside.
Okay, I thought. Okay. I needed a plan of attack. What would give me my best chance at getting out of here?
My first thought was to send M-2 after the guy near the entrance in the brick cylinder. I remembered the pain of getting hit with M-2’s blaster: it paralyzed me, knocked me right off my feet. If I took out the entrance guard, maybe I could break out and make a run for it. But then I thought: No. Once the blasting started, the others would be alert. They’d come running in the direction of the fight. If I hit the entrance guard, they’d converge on the doorway, closing off my escape.
So the best idea was to strike away from the entrance first and hope the guard outside the brick cylinder abandoned his post so I could get away.
I studied the wall monitors quickly. All the Home-landers were at their positions now. They were communicating with one another through microphones clipped to the shoulders of their khaki jackets. The leader—the killer I knew as Waylon—was posted off at the perimeter, about as far from Milton Two as he could be. Waylon, I could see now, was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with heavy, sagging features and a scruffy black beard. He had deep-set eyes that were always moving, watchful. I doubted M-2 could cross the facility and reach him before he or one of the other Homelanders spotted him and possibly shot him down.
I looked at another monitor where another man was standing beside a broken column of stone. This guy was young—maybe my age. Tall and skinny with light blond hair and a long, narrow face. His eyes looked angry and mean. I looked down at his feet. The morning mist curled around his hiking boots. But as the mist moved and cleared in patches, I could make out Milton Two—the little device shaped like an Xbox controller—lying in the grass about twenty feet away from him. Then the mist closed again and M-2 disappeared behind it.
I looked at the ticking clock on the bomb.
3:00 . . . 2:59 . . . 2:58 . . .
There was no more time to think this over. I had to attack.
I tilted the controller. Reading the altitude numbers— looking up at the monitor—looking at M-2’s point-of-view screen, I could keep my little electronic pal low to the ground, hidden in the mist. I tilted the controller forward and M-2 began to fly at that low altitude, brushing through the grass as he approached the knees of the blond Homelander standing guard nearby.
M-2 moved silently. The blond Homelander didn’t hear him coming. But if I was going to get a good shot, I was going to have to come up higher. I tilted the controller forward. The numbers ratcheted up as M-2 lifted into the air, up around eye level. Now I could see the blond guard’s face in M-2’s POV screen.
I glanced over at the monitor. The blond guy still didn’t see M-2 coming.
Just a few more feet.
I stole a glance at the clock: 2:30 . . . 2:29 . . . 2:28 . . .
Then: “Hey!”
I nearly jumped out of my sneakers. The voice had come directly from the controller in my hand. I looked. I could see the blond guard in M-2’s POV screen. He had sensed M-2 approaching. He had turned. He had seen the little device flying through the air straight at him and had cried out, his voice caught on M-2’s microphone.
Now the blond guard pulled his machine gun off his hip. He was turning around to face M-2.
I pressed the Fire button.
The electronic blast shook the controller in my hand—just like the vibrating function in the Xbox controller. The flash of electricity hit the blond guard smack in the forehead. He gave a cry and went tumbling backward, the machine gun flying out of his hands. Then he was down—and M-2 was still hovering near the place where he’d fallen.
But now I saw on the controller map: the red dots were on the move. I could hear voices—shouts—coming through the controller’s speakers. Not only that: I could see by the readout that M-2’s blast had depleted his energy and the numbers were low—though they were already climbing back up as he recharged his blaster from his energy source.
I glanced up at the monitor. Waylon was barking orders into his shoulder mike. The other Homelanders were charging toward the place where the blond guard had fallen. They were bringing their guns to bear on M-2.
All of them, that is, except the guard at the bunker exit. He had lowered his machine gun and was standing at the ready, but he stuck to his position, blocking my route of escape.
The three other guards converged on M-2. I had to keep him moving or they’d blow him out of the sky.
I looked at the clock on the bomb.
2:20 . . . 2:19 . . . 2:18 . . .
The Homelanders kept closing in on M-2. The clock kept ticking down.
2:17 . . . 2:16 . . .
Two-minute warning.
I had to get out of here. Now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Race for the Trees
I looked down at the controller. The red dots continued closing in on the green dot. Now they were near enough so I could see the guards advancing in M-2’s POV screen as well. Grim, determined faces getting closer and closer. Guns raised, pointed right at my little flying ally.
I held the controller steady. I let M-2 hover there in the air. The clock on the bomb approached two minutes.
The three charging Homelanders steadied their machine guns as they charged toward M-2.
I tilted the controller, wiggling it left and right at the same time. M-2 flew straight at his attackers, ducking this way and that as he came.
The three Homelanders opened fire, blasting away with their machine guns. The noise of it reached me distantly through the controller’s tiny speaker. I saw the coughing flame from the barrels in the POV screen.
But M-2 was a small target, moving fast and dodging back and forth—up and down now too. He got closer to them without getting hit. Closer, zipping and zigzagging through the hail of bullets.
And now, I heard the Homelanders cry out, cursing in frustration as M-2 zipped right into the midst of them, making it impossible for them to shoot at him without killing one another. One of them swiped at the flying device with the butt of his gun, trying to knock it out of the sky. It was a near-miss, but I cocked the controller and M-2 levitated above the swinging gun.
Then I pressed the button to release the tear gas.
Instantly the view through the POV screen went foggy whit
e as the gas was released. I saw the Homelander guards for another second. I saw them clutching their throats. I saw their tongues coming out as they started gagging and coughing. Then they reeled back every which way, stumbling off into the smoke, where they vanished.
Now M-2 and I were both moving at once. I started for the bunker exit, working the controller even as I went. I guided M-2 through the smoke, out into the open air. I found the red dot standing outside the cylinder—the guard just outside the bunker entrance.
M-2 flew at him. I flew at the door.
Now I was standing in front of the wall. I worked the controller clumsily with my left hand as I raised my right hand against the place where the hidden door was. I glanced down at the controller, tilting it this way and that to keep M-2 flying at the guard by the brick cylinder. Now I could see the guard on the POV screen: a short, thick-necked bull of a guy with dark skin and bright, wicked eyes. He had his gun at the ready and was staring in confusion at his friends where they reeled and choked in the tear gas. I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t spotted M-2 coming at him yet. Those bright eyes of his were scanning the sky, searching for the flying security device.
I tilted the controller and sent M-2 right at him.
Then I turned to the door. With my free hand, I quickly traced the lines and diagonals on the wall. I had a moment of panicky doubt: What if it didn’t work? What if the code was different for this door than it was for the door of the Panic Room?
But no. The engine made its grinding noise. The panel slid back. I stepped out into the dark antechamber at the bottom of the cylinder’s steps.
And then—gunfire.
I was so startled, I nearly dropped the controller. I froze where I was at the foot of the stairs. The sound had come from the speaker in the device and from the outside world above me at the same time. The thickset guard at the entrance was firing at M-2, his teeth bared as he moved his machine gun back and forth and sent a wild spray of machine-gun bullets at the zigzagging thing that was racing toward him.
I could feel the time bomb ticking off its last two minutes in the bunker behind me. But I had to stop where I was. I had to pay attention to what was happening on the controller’s screen.
I could see the barrel of the guard’s machine gun flashing as M-2 raced toward him. Once again, I worked the controller to keep my little ally moving back and forth, up and down, dodging the spray of bullets as they came.
Then the gunfire stopped. I heard the fat guard give a curse. He was out of bullets. I saw him on the POV screen as he hurled his machine gun to the ground, reached inside his khaki jacket and pulled out a pistol. He started to lift it, started to point it at M-2. I saw the black darkness of the bore.
But he was too late. M-2 was in range now. His blaster was fully recharged. I fired and hit the fat guard square in the chest. I saw his face contort in pain as the shock went through him. Then he was gone, collapsing like a tower of blocks when you pull out the bottom one.
I’d done it. He was down. I grabbed hold of the banister and started up the long flight.
I took the stairs two and then three at a time, going as fast as I could to get away from the explosion that I knew must now be only a minute and a half away.
Now I was on the landing. Now I was making the sign of the house again in front of the blank wall. Now the engine was grinding, the door was sliding back.
I used the moment to glance down at M-2’s controller.
I saw Waylon’s face, contorted with rage, filling the POV screen as he rushed toward the entrance, toward me.
The door kept sliding open, revealing the fat guard where he lay on the threshold, unconscious. In another second, I’d be exposed, giving Waylon a clear shot at me, an easy chance to blow me away. At the same time, though M-2’s blaster was still recharging, it wasn’t anywhere near full power yet.
Now the door was half open. I looked up. There was Waylon. Our eyes met and a thrill of terror went through me as I remembered his cold, amused voice giving the order to kill me.
He saw me too. He lifted his machine gun, pointing the bore at my chest.
And there was M-2 as well. I saw the little device hovering in the air just beside the onrushing Waylon.
Quickly, I glanced down at the controller and pressed the Fire button.
I looked up in time to see what happened next right in front of me outside the open door.
M-2 let out a weak blast, using all the power he had left. It hit Waylon in the side of the head. The terrorist leader cursed, losing hold of his gun as he gripped reflexively at the wounded spot. The gun was strapped around his shoulder so he didn’t drop it, but it swung loose as he staggered to the side, dazed.
It was my moment—my only moment. I leapt over the fat guard and ran for it.
I dashed out of the brick cylinder and into the ruins of the old hospital complex. The forest mist surrounded me as I ran past crumbling columns and empty buildings with shattered windows that stared like eyes. I saw the three guards where they stood trying to recover from the tear-gas blast. I saw the fourth guard—the blond guy M-2 had knocked over with a shock—trying to sit up. Then I lost sight of all of them as I ran behind a freestanding wall. Up ahead, I saw the woods. If I could get into the trees, I thought, maybe I could lose myself in the forest.
But just then: the stuttering cough of machine-gun fire. Dirt flew up at my feet as bullets dug into the earth.
I leapt to the side and rolled. There was a crumbling column of stone. I got behind it before the shooter found his range. The bullets struck the column, throwing chips of rock into the air.
Lying breathless on the ground behind the column, I looked down at the controller still gripped in my hand. When I tilted M-2 toward the nearest red dot, I saw Waylon in the POV screen. He’d recovered from the half blast and was coming after me, machine gun lowered, ready to open fire again when he had me in sight. If I broke from behind the column, he’d mow me down easily.
M-2’s blaster charge was still too low to get off another shot. But I thought maybe I could use the tear gas again to put Waylon out of commission. Hiding there behind the column, I tipped the controller and sent the security device flying after him even as Waylon came charging toward me.
Waylon came closer to the column. M-2 came closer to Waylon. I put my finger on the firing button, ready to unleash the gas.
But before I could, Waylon suddenly stopped in his tracks. He wheeled toward M-2. My flying pal was moving too fast to stop. He was too close to get out of the way. I peeked out from behind the column. I knew what was going to happen a second before Waylon pulled the trigger.
Waylon fired and M-2 exploded in a sparking, sizzling white and red flash. I felt my little friend die in the rattle of the controller in my hand.
But there was no time to mourn for plastic and wires when so much flesh and blood were at stake. Waylon’s back was turned to me as he shot M-2 out of the air. I seized the opportunity. I bolted from behind the column, hurling the useless controller away as I ran.
The ruin of a large, warehouse-like building stood in the mist off to my right. I ran for it, hoping to reach cover before Waylon could turn and find me. I was almost there when he opened fire. My heart seized with terror at that deadly, rattling sound. A bullet ricocheted off the wall of the building just ahead of me. I threw up my arms to protect my face as I was hit by flying shards of plaster.
Then I was there, dodging behind the same wall, out of the range of the stream of bullets.
I raced along beside the building. If I could reach the far side before Waylon came around behind me, I might have a chance of breaking around the corner for cover and then dashing all the way into the trees.
I ran full tilt, my face contorted with the effort, barely aware of my own exhaustion and breathlessness. All I could think was that any second Waylon might clear the corner behind me and pump a stream of machine-gun bullets into my spine.
I was nearly there. Running. Nearly
there.
And then two guards stepped out in front of me, blocking my way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zero
It was two of the guards I’d hit with tear gas. A moment later, the third one joined them. Then the fourth—the lanky blond guy M-2 had laid out with his blaster. All four of them blocked my way with machine guns lifted directly at me.
There was nowhere to go. No way to escape without being turned into Swiss cheese. I pulled up short. I saw the Homelanders’ fingers tighten on the triggers of their weapons. I thought they were going to shoot me dead then and there.
“Put your hands up!”
The voice came from behind me. I looked around and saw Waylon at my back. He had his machine gun trained on me too.
“Put ’em up!” he shouted again.
I raised my hands over my head. I turned to face him.
He stalked toward me angrily. I expected him to pull the trigger any second. But he kept coming until he was standing mere inches away from me, his furious eyes peering into mine. He stood like that a long second, his teeth bared. Then . . .
“Pig!” he said, and he slapped me.
It was a hard shot with the back of his hand. It landed full force to the side of the face, nearly knocking me over. I fell two steps to the side, my face stinging, my head feeling thick, my vision blurred.
Before I could recover, Waylon grabbed me by the front of my fleece and swung me around, hurling me against the side of the building. I gave a loud “Oof!” as the impact knocked the wind out of me. Waylon gripped the fleece harder, twisting it back so that his fist pushed into my throat, cutting off my air. He leaned in close to me as I struggled for breath.
“I ought to kill you right where you stand,” he said in his thick guttural accent. “And I will kill you, that’s a promise. I will kill you just as surely as I killed your friend in the bunker.”
“Waylon . . . ,” said one of the other guards, a husky man with a big handlebar mustache.