The wailing screams of a baby chase us, then fade, replaced by the steady slap of flesh on flesh, sex or death, no way to tell, no way to stop, eventually covered by chanting prayers, a nasal hum of indeterminate words. Slend charges through corridor after corridor, weaving a path along the guts of the Rust, and the roar of the mob grows louder and louder. We duck through yet another door and I almost slam into Jase, his body pressed up against Wind, gasping on her shoulder.
Across from us, a towering man with matted dreadlocks and the flattened nose of a fighter faces Slend, hefting a length of metal pipe in one hand. Rastafarian colors cover his loose pants, and a logo for one of the grimier techie bars adorns his sleeveless shirt. Six more hulking figures stand behind him, in two loose ranks. He points the pipe at her.
“And what’re you doin’ back in Terrell’s turf? Told you before, this is my piece of the Rust.”
Slend walks up to him, arms loose at her sides, putting herself directly into his personal space. A centimeter closer and they’d be touching. Her forehead barely comes to his chin.
“Terrell. Move.”
He tilts his head back and laughs.
“Oh ho, boys, the ogre thinks she can tell a man what—”
Slend’s fist cracks across his jaw like a meteor strike, and he topples bonelessly, pipe clattering away, face smashing into the thinly carpeted floor. She immediately walks up to the group, positioning herself in front of the first rank’s middle figure, a fleshy man with a poofy mass of curls. He stares at her, eyes widening, trying to lean away.
“Move.”
“Wait, why di—”
She uppercuts him, his front teeth smashing together, one flying out, his eyes rolling back as he falls. The other men flinch back toward the walls of the corridor, leaving only the middle one between us and escape. Slend steps over the twitching body, directly in front of the last of Terrell’s toadies, a heavily muscled bald man with tattoos covering his face in swirling designs. He takes a step back, and she matches it instantly. Behind, the howling gale of the mob sounds like it’s almost on top of us.
“Move.”
He scrambles out of the way until his quivering spine flattens up against the wall, and Slend nods.
“Let’s go.”
Wind, Jase, and I jog through the human tunnel, their eyes looking anywhere but at us, expressions stunned. After we’re through, Slend takes the lead once again, pushing us up into a sprint, more hallways flashing by.
“Damn, Slend, that was pretty badass,” Wind crows over the roar of chaos, her feet seeming to barely touch the ground. “I thought we were goners for sure when you pasted that first one.”
“Bullies. Hit once, they fold. Lots in Rust. History with Terrell.”
“Is that why you live here? Kick some ass, take some names, get some workouts in the real?”
“Cheap. Lawyers aren’t.”
“Oh.” Wind’s response is subdued. “Yeah, that’s true.”
She falls silent, and Slend pushes open another door, this one covered in “emergency exit” warnings and scratched graffiti. I can hear individual footsteps not far behind, the quicker members of the mob mere seconds away. We emerge into a large corridor, horrors of the atrium to our left, its hellish glow stretching out like streamers, a gleaming army of drones to our right, the arching bridge of the skyway beyond them. Exhausted, we stumble up to the closest one. It’s the first time I’ve ever been happy to see a riot drone.
“Please, let us out, we’re trying to get somewhere safe.”
“HALT. PREPARE FOR FACIAL SCAN.”
“Yes, fine, whatever,” I snap tiredly, “just let us out before we’re crushed.”
“SCANNING. APPROVED. STAY PEACEFUL, CITIZENS. Nice job on that dragon.”
“Thanks.”
We push our way through the serried ranks of drones, roaring screams chasing our heels, until we finally emerge onto the empty safety of the skyway. Jase promptly falls to his knees and starts puking, Slend and Wind continuing on to Eastspire. I let him have a minute to try to get his body under control, and turn around to watch the Rust. Force myself to witness.
Scattered figures dart around the corner from the atrium, and then the full boiling mass appears, incoherent screams heralding its arrival. The drones respond with a volley of at least a hundred suppression grenades, choking gas and incapacitating flashes engulfing the swarm, a fireworks crescendo of pain. Bodies fall beneath trampling feet, then disappear behind yellow-tinged clouds. Electrified nets add a buzzing crackle to the mayhem, arcing current arching backs and clenching jaws, while rubber bullets slam into those somehow still upright, pinballing them back into the maelstrom. It’s pandemonium, a relentless assault on those trapped between the sets of drone forces, and I turn away, sickened. The casualty rate is already catastrophic, but the drones never stop their mechanical rhythm, a brutal meat grinder to the rioters’ flesh. Most will survive, but they’ll wish they hadn’t. I pull Jase to his feet.
“Come on. We need to get out of here. There’s still a chance it might get worse.”
Jase wipes a hand across his mouth, and stumbles into a ragged pace next to me. Behind us, the sounds of home continue unabated.
20
[How the World Ends]
Eastspire’s entrance stretches in front of us like a gummie chapel. Vaulting corridors lead away from the chaos in the Rust, their steady lightpanel glow calm and soothing, a balm from above. No one is visible, inhabitants driven inside by the riots, leaving nothing to disturb the hush. It feels like sanctuary.
Or damnation.
The buzz-saw hum of riots still vibrates through the floor, a physical sensation felt rather than heard. The air itself is hot and sticky, pregnant with potential outbreaks of mayhem. Our footfalls seem to echo unnaturally, marking us as intruders in this urban jungle. I feel like we’re crossing a megaspire’s roof in the middle of a cat-six.
As if by instinct, we draw closer together, moving through the oppressively silent halls in a cautious trot. Wind’s footsteps are even less perceptible than usual, Slend’s hands clenching and unclenching in a regular rhythm, Jase tapping in midair, a flood of socials drowning his mind. I twitch my wrist, and frown at the lack of blade in my palm, same as the last five times I tried. Around us, the marks of violence pass by.
A crimson handprint on a wall, dragging to a spotlessly gleaming shut door.
A left-footed boot, tipped over on its side, a pair of glasses lying next to it, one lens cracked.
A muffled sound creeping out from a corridor, guttural grunts and moans, halting in irregular pauses.
“This,” Wind whispers, floor-to-ceiling anti-Hajj slurs creeping past, paint dripping in slow-motion bloodstains, “is the worst fucking psych-sec I’ve ever fucking seen. Muhammad wept.”
“We’re almost there,” I respond tiredly. “We’ll be fine once we reach Johnny’s.”
“Doutbful,” Slend rumbles, and I’m hard-pressed to disagree. Wind is right. We’ve all seen riots before, but this is fucking awful.
“We’re almost there. C’mon.” I pick up the pace, leading us over another skybridge and finally into the Brown. The smothering atmosphere burns away like midday fog, banished by reliably flickering glowpanels. “Jase, have you contacted the old man?”
Jase startles at the sound of his name.
“Wha— Johnny?” He bites his lower lip, the dimmer lighting of the Brown shrouding his face. “Yeah, I’ve been trying, but the gummies have the ’Net on total lockdown now. No socials, no private comms, nothing but upbeat messages about how great our life is and will be after this minor inconvenience finishes resolving. Can’t even get a sniff of what’s going on with the burbies.”