He entered the station. It was in far worse condition than the one he had destroyed yesterday. Choosing a path between the wreckage of a building and an enormous pile of rusted metal beams, Sparks ran towards the screaming and gunshots. Even though it made it near impossible to find his way forward, he was pleased that the clutter of steel and debris turned the station into a maze of alleyways – fighting in tight spaces would favour the Adrenalites.
He dashed around a corner and found a militia coming towards him, ten yards away, holding a revolver.
They locked eyes, then both sprung into action. The militia yelled as she lifted the pistol and cocked the hammer. Sparks dropped into a crouch and darted to the side. The militia fired twice. The first shot missed. The second whizzed past Sparks’ ear, disturbingly close. Sparks grabbed a brick and hurled it, catching the militia in the shoulder. Her third shot went wild.
Sparks leapt the last five yards, grabbing the militia by the throat as he bowled into her and sent them both to the ground. The militia tried to raise her gun, but Sparks pinned her wrist to the ground with his other hand.
“Fucking monster,” the militia gasped, spitting out a tangle of her blond hair that caught in her mouth.
“Don’t call me that,” Sparks growled. “I know a man who called me that. I didn’t like it.”
“Doesn’t change what you are. You’re a—”
Sparks tightened his grip around her neck, cutting off her words. “I said don’t fucking call me that.”
She stopped struggling as her face began to turn a pale blue. Sparks saw the resignation in her eyes. He released her arm and raised his fist for a final blow. No point making her suffer, after all.
To his left: the glint of sunlight on steel.
Sparks rolled to the right.
Too late.
Something cold tore into his side. He cried out, one hand moving to the wound. His fingers met the touch of steel and blood. He spied his attacker on the rooftop above him, armed with a crossbow.
“Bastard!” Sparks dashed forward, leaping into the air and grabbing the edge of the roof. The militia stepped forward, dropping the crossbow and pulling out a knife.
Sparks cursed. He didn’t have time to climb up before the militia swung the knife down, aiming for Sparks’ fingers clinging to the ledge. Sparks let go with one hand and grabbed the militia’s wrist, stopping the blade just in time. He yanked the militia forward and pulled him off the roof. The militia’s yell was cut short as he hit the ground head first. His neck snapped with a crunch.
Sparks dropped down, the militia’s body cushioning his fall, and inspected his wound. He was lucky: the bolt hit below the ribcage and far enough to the side that it hadn’t hit any major organs. Also, it wasn’t a normal bolt, but rather a thin steel needle, nearly a foot long. Confused, Sparks reached down to pull it out.
“Don’t move.”
Sparks turned to the female militia from before. She had sat up, one hand to her throat. The other hand held her gun. “Hands up. Now,” she wheezed.
Sparks raised his hands, fingers outstretched. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, watching for any sign of distraction – he would only need a split second. “Well,” he said, trying to keep his rising panic out of his voice, “What now?”
“Shut up.” Her eyes moved to the throbbing wound in his side, but she didn’t do anything. What was she waiting for?
Footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, Sparks saw a trio of militia, all armed with knives, running towards him. The female militia glanced at the newcomers. Sparks took the chance and darted to the side. She fired.
He felt a sharp sting in his shoulder as the bullet grazed him. He leapt forward, pulling the strange arrow from his side as he did, then shoved it up through the militia’s jaw and into her skull.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
Sparks turned to the three militia, grinning. He made a beckoning gesture. “Come on. I think I’ve finally warmed up now.”
They all backed away slowly.
“Aw, don’t be like that. I’ll go easy on you, I promise. Well, kinda. I—” Sparks paused when he noticed his arm. It wasn’t glowing anymore.
He looked down at his chest. His light was fading, and quickly. His second heart still pulsed, but was weakening with each beat.
The thumping in his chest stopped.
His glow vanished completely.
What the hell was going on?
Now the militia were the ones grinning. They advanced on Sparks, knives out. The man in the middle – an older man with a thick beard – even had the gall to laugh.
Sparks didn’t move, numb with shock. Should he fight, or run? He had never run away before. Retreating was cowardly. It was something only weak people did, not him.
He ran anyway.
He turned left at the first corner, then right. The militia chased, just a couple steps behind, yelling taunts. Panic overwhelmed Sparks. He had to get out of here, now. While he was deactivated he was vulnerable, weak, pathetic – he wouldn’t last ten minutes like this.
And he was lost. He took another right turn and came to a blocked path. The building on his right had collapsed, leaving nothing but a mountain of rubble. Too late to turn around, so Sparks began to climb. Chunks of concrete shifted and crumbled beneath his boots. If he wasn’t careful he was going to lose his footing and slide straight down to his pursuers.
He glanced behind. The militia were following him up, but he was moving faster. He was going to get away.
His next step sunk him knee deep into the rubble, slabs of concrete dissolving into little more than dust. He pitched forward, landing face first in the jagged debris. He tried to pull his leg free, but his trousers were stuck.
The closest Militia was only a yard away, raising his knife. Sparks rolled to the side, and the knife came down where his body had been a moment before. Cursing, Sparks pulled his leg free, just as the second militia jumped on top of him, shoving him back into the rubble. Dust and dirt clogged his throat.
With one hand, Sparks caught the militia arms that held the knife. He squirmed free enough to shove his knee into the militia’s groin. The militia’s grip went weak and Sparks twisted away. He staggered over the apex of the rubble, stumbled, fell, and rolled down the debris. Concrete slammed into his back, limbs, and head as he fell, driving the air from his lungs and sending spikes of pain through every nerve.
He rolled to a stop on the ground. No time to check for any injuries. He stood and ran—
– into a dead end.
If Sparks had any breath left, he would have cursed. He turned to see the three militia carefully descending the rubble, taking their time. They knew he had nowhere left to go.
And they were right. But if Sparks was going to die, he was going to die fighting. No doubt about that.
He adopted a fighting stance. Knees bent. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands raised.
Suddenly, the wall to Sparks’ left exploded. Bricks went flying as a militia – well, more accurately, the broken corpse of a militia – burst through, flew across the alley, hit the opposite wall with a thud, and dropped to the ground.
An Adrenalite stepped through the hole left in the wall. He glowed with a dark blue hue, and the tendrils of line covered his entire body; they meshed across his face like a spider web. He was tall, with thick arms and broad shoulders. Black hair hung past his shoulders, knotted and greasy. He wore nothing but a tattered pair of shorts. A pair of activation needles were strapped around each of his forearms.
He turned to Sparks, looked him up and down, and frowned.
Sparks grinned. “Hey there stranger. Care to give me a hand?”
The militia attacked.
The Adrenalite burst into motion, his movements nearly too fast to see. He grabbed two militia by their necks and slammed their heads together. Both skulls burst. Blood and gore and specks of bone sprayed everywhere.