Intended Extinction (13 page)

I held
the tuna can-sized capsule in my palm. Inside, the brown, gelatinous substance stared back at me, triggering nausea. I wondered if this was going to help or not.

After disposing of the metal-head in the alleyway, we decided to get some “breakfast” before leaving. Our host offered us some of his finest stolen goods: MetaChews. Chemically preserved into a gelatinous goop, MetaChews were designed to give the consumer quick energy for the next few hours. They tasted like downing a bag of gymnast chalk.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bloodface, still wearing his goggles, making his eyes look buggy.

“Nothin’,” I replied, wolfing the whole MetaChew in one gulp. I felt the gelatin turn into coarse powder inside my throat, drying my esophagus.

“Water?” Tara managed to ask. She was close to gagging as she struggled to ingest her “strawberry” flavored helping.

The boy grabbed us a few bottles of water from his corner of boxes. I was beginning to wonder how much stuff this kid had stolen.

“We’re
stacked!
” he exclaimed. “I’ve got enough stuff to keep us alive for weeks.”

I inwardly smirked at his comment.

“I think we can get there by the afternoon, dude,” I said, disposing of my empty MetaChew in his garbage.

He didn’t care, continuing to prance around the room like a monkey on meth.

“All right,” I announced, grabbing the tan, canvas backpack he had lent me. “We stay on Water Street until we get to Broad. We’ll take that to South Street and stick to the shoreline until we get to the bridge. Pretty simple. If we see
anything
out of the ordinary—anything at all—”

“We run,” they said simultaneously.

I got their drift and nodded.

Tara donned her new pack and slung her MLM so that it draped across her chest. While Bloodface was packing, I approached her, trying to get a feel for her input.

“You ready to do this?” I asked.

She put her hair into a ponytail and scoffed. “I guess,” she said.

I wanted to run something by her before we left—a thought I had about Slate.

I pulled her into one of the corners. The boy was still busy, collecting spare parts from underneath the couch.

“I can’t stop thinking about Slate,” I started. “He
had
to have known something was about to happen.”

Tara’s eyes narrowed and she said, “But he was—”

“I know,” I cut in. “He was right there, I know. But, I just can’t stop thinking about what he said to me. What if he was
in
on it somehow?”

Tara stared at me with her luminous crystal eyes.

Before she could answer, Bloodface interrupted. “He wasn’t.”

Tara and I turned on a dime.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“That Slater guy’s not going to be
in
on anything.” He was sort of laughing.

“And why’s that?”

“
Because
,” he stated, “he’s a whole lot of
dead
right now
!
”

Slate was
gone?

“I saw it, Shinbutt,” he said, stuffing a final article into his pack and zipping it up. “
On ze news
. They’ve been playing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over—”

“Show us,” said Tara.

He nodded and pulled out his calculator-sized device, the same one he had used to trigger the alarm. He touched a few buttons and the Fuse turned on.

“Steven,” said a female blonde reporter. “I am standing outside the Turnmont apartment complex in lower Manhattan, where the mysterious explosion killed fourteen people last night.” The wreckage behind her was bewildering.

“Fourteen?” exclaimed Tara.

“Shh!” snapped Bloodface.

“Of these fourteen casualties,” continued the television, “one of them was Archturus Slate, former CEO of GenoTec. Officials at GenoTec has just confirmed that this was indeed the real body of the acclaimed CEO, leaving only one founding member of GenoTec left alive.”

The program switched back to the two news anchors.

“Thanks, Andrea,” began Steven, a brown-haired, polished man with a gaunt face. “Speaking of founding members of GenoTec, we have footage of today’s press conference with Jonas Repik, former Vice President. Repik was instituted as the new President only hours after the confirmed death of Archturus Slate, receiving a unanimous vote from GenoTec’s Board of Directors. Here is that footage.”

As my mind tried to receive the incoming shock, the screen switched to the press conference, where Jonas Repik sat at a long, wooden table, filled with GenoTec superiors.

“Mr. Repik,” a young man in the front row asked, “what can you tell us about these masked men who were responsible for last night’s attack?”

Repik sat forward, with his greasy, unkempt hair and said in a sneering voice, “There have always been those that would seek to destroy what GenoTec has created. This is just another incident. We assure everyone that we are doing everything we can to apprehend these soldiers.”

Cameras flashed, followed by a deluge of questions. Finally, a moderator pointed to a woman in the third row.

“Mr. Repik, do you have any idea why Slate was at the Turnmont last night?”

The new President paused for a moment. “Archturus Slate was the CEO. He did what he pleased. We have no idea why Slate was at the Turnmont. We’re still trying to figure that out.”

Another person was directed the microphone. It was a plump man, wearing a green sports coat. “Mr. Repik, the people who witnessed this horrible tragedy described these soldiers as wearing high-tech armored suits, with sophisticated weaponry. Do you have any idea how these terrorists acquired such tactical equipment?”

“Unfortunately,” Repik began, “we cannot account for every piece of military equipment left over from the pre-Edge era. However, we have taken steps to find and secure every military installation or warehouse that would house such equipment in the surrounding areas.”

Another question arose from a female journalist, “Mr. Repik, do you believe this event has anything to do with the recent release of Vax to the general public?”

I tuned out the rest of the press conference, feeling overwhelmed and annoyed.

“Slate’s gone,” mumbled Tara.

“Oh, quit cryin’,” the boy chided. “Was he somebody important?”

“He was,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. We should get going.”

Tara gave me a small, surprised look, and I knew why. She was still hovering around our previous conversation. Like me, she wondered why Slate had been at the Turnmont last night. But right now, we didn’t have time to guess. The note telling us to go to Ellis Island was now the only tangible thing we had.

In a few moments, we left the secret room and shattered glass behind us and began our trek to the Community. Tara and I were extra careful on our approach to the street, checking the perimeter with excessive observance. Bloodface brought up the rear of our small party and his backpack bounced with every step he took.

“All right.” I stopped in the street and turned to our little friend. “What’s your real name?”

The boy shot me a frown. “Whadd’ya mean?”

“If you’re coming with us, I’m not calling you that stupid name. And you’re calling
us
by
our
real names.”

He let a puff of air escape. “Lame. Why? Don’t you like your new names? Much better than your old ones, that’s for sure . . .”

I held my gaze and pressed, “So what is it?”

He twitched and sighed. “Fine, you weirdos. It’s . . .
ugh!
. . . Justin.” He rolled his tongue out in disgust.

“Justin? That’s such a
cute
name!” poked Tara. She waited for his reaction.

“Shut up, Ladynuts.”

She put a hand to her ear and said, “Sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing.”

He snarled and swore at us. “Can we just
go
?”

I folded my arms. “No,
Justin
, we can’t. Who’s Ladynuts?”

“All right, all right,” he said harshly. “Ugly-ass
Mark
and Tara the bitch—”

“Ex
cuse
me?” said Tara, stepping forward.

“Nice try,” I said. “But that’s not gonna cut it.”

He dropped his eyelids and spoke in a tiny, alien voice. “Mark and Tara can we please go now?”

“Atta boy,” I said, “
now
we’re getting somewhere.”

He mumbled to himself for the next few minutes.

I scanned Water Street as best as I could, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed tame; no armored soldiers, no shining motorcycles. We kept close to the south sidewalk, trying to remain as hidden as possible.

As Tara and I continued at a steady pace, I started to register
only
our footsteps. Whirling around, I saw Justin standing on his toes, looking inside of a stray sedan.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

“Let’s get some wheels!” Justin exclaimed, checking the door handle one last time before giving up.

“I think it might just be safer if we go on foot,” I suggested, looking to Tara for support.

But Tara was looking at the car with cloudy eyes.

“I don’t know, Mark,” she said. “That bridge is a pretty long.”

Justin lit up.

I sighed, checking the street one last time. “All right,” I resigned, “but let’s find one quick.”

The three of us set out in search of an unlocked, still usable car. Most of these abandoned machines had been sitting here for at least five years; quietly waiting amidst the horrible agony the world was enduring. I wondered if any of them would even start. If we found a newer model, we could be in luck.

Cars had become useless for most people nowadays. For one, there were only about ten operating gas stations in the world, each in their respective surviving colony. Secondly, there was nowhere
to
go. No one—except maybe Repik—was going to take a trip cross-country.

We filtered throughout the quiet street, cupping our hands around our eyes and peering into the windows of parked cars. So far, the ones I tried were keyless and locked. Breaking inside wouldn’t be a problem. I doubted any of us knew how to hot-wire a car, though, so we needed the keys.

Justin’s undulating voice called across the street.

“Yo! Let’s get this party
rollin’!
” he yelled, climbing on top of the trunk and starting to dance.

Tara and I met up again and tracked down the eleven-year-old. He was standing on a forest green, four-door sedan. It had to be at least a 2030 model, which was great news. I peered through the glass and saw a set of keys dangling from the ignition.

“Nice job,” I said, admiring the condition of the machine. I wasn’t a car freak, but I knew that this car was pretty advanced, which meant we might have a chance at starting it, even if it had been stagnant for years.

“It’s hella locked, though,” said Justin, a little deflated.

“And you know this thing’s got a crazy alarm,” I added, circling the vehicle.

“Well,” said Tara, “we don’t really want to sit in the open like this, either.”

I nodded and said, “If more of those soldiers
are
tracking us, the alarm won’t really matter anyways.” When I finished my statement, I strode up to the driver’s window and plunged my rifle’s stock into the glass. A stinging wail escaped the vehicle and the lights pulsed in duress.

In one motion I unlatched the lock, swung the creaking door, and planted myself in the driver’s seat. I shoved my foot onto the clutch and rammed the gearshift into first. My eyes closed and I twisted the key.

Nothing happened.

“Damn it, come on!” I pleaded, turning the key again.

The alarm continued to spread its call throughout the city, rebounding off of the skyscrapers like a match of ping-pong. Tara swiveled around, looking for any sign of a threat, while Justin tried mimicking the tone of the siren with his own voice.

I cranked the started again and again. I didn’t want to search for another freaking car.

A high-pitched engine sliced the air behind us. The same fear from last night flooded back into my system.

I jerked my head toward Tara, who was stricken by the approaching motorcycle. Justin stood by her side with a wild look in his eyes.

“Get in!” I yelled.

Tara looked at me and then back to the street. Justin followed orders and climbed in the back seat. Tara stood there like a statue, like she was being hypnotized.

“Tara!” I screamed again, just as the sedan rumbled to a start.

“Boo-yeah!” exclaimed Justin in a deep voice.

The car clanked and gurgled for a second. I revved the engine in neutral, getting things warmed up. Tara was still standing there!

“Tara! Please!”

This time she backed away, crossed the front of the car, and hopped in the passenger seat.

As soon as her butt landed, I rammed the clutch to the floor, locked the car into first gear and peeled out. The machine jolted, trying to learn how to work after years of deactivation.

Tara’s door slammed shut as I accidentally clipped another car, zipping away toward Battery Park. The little four-door proved worthy as I watched the speedometer reach forty, then fifty.

Justin and Tara were both looking behind us. I kept my eyes forward, carefully switching glances between my mirrors. The lanes peeled away, and State Street was approaching fast.

As the succulent green trees of Battery Park emerged, I began to see people. I jerked the wheel to the left and we careened down Whitehall Street, nearly smashing into a blue coup.

“Mark?!” Tara asked. “Ellis Island?”

“There are people that way!” I responded with annoyance. We couldn’t risk any more lives.

Two, jet-black bullet bikes shot out onto Whitehall, not far behind. I clenched the wheel harder and pressed the gas more. As we came upon the next turn onto South Street, I pounded the clutch down, switched to third gear and yanked the wheel to the left. The sedan screeched around the bend and we plummeted down South Street like a rocket on steroids.

Out of nowhere, a bullet pierced the back window, sending pieces of glass all over Justin. He covered his head and yelled, “Holy shaaaa-sha-sha!”

“Keep your heads down!” I yelled, weaving in and out of parked cars.

The motorcycles were gaining on us. Tara was holding on to her seatbelt, closing her eyes. More bullets whizzed by, some hitting the car, some deflecting off into the city.

As Broad Street passed us on the left, I noticed a monstrous semi-truck covering half of the street ahead, hanging off the ramp to FDR Drive. There was only a small gap in between the semi and another parked car.

A strange, outrageous idea popped into my mind. I tried to think of another option, but the gap was closing fast. There wasn’t time to think, so I took a leap of faith.

We came down the street like a lightning bolt, screeching around metal obstacles, barely missing collision after collision. The motorcycles were lining up, one behind the other. The opening was only seconds away.

“Everyone brace yourselves!”

The little green car cleared the gap with an awful crunching noise. The side mirrors richocheted in either direction. I broke through a storm of second thoughts and slammed on the brake.

The first motorcycle hit us square in the trunk.

My head hit the steering wheel. Tara’s airbag pinned her to her seat, while mine malfunctioned. Justin’s body collided with her chair, having disregarded his seat belt. I tried to register what had happened, catching glimpses through blurry vision. The car had died and smoke rose from behind. Outside, a silent body lay in the road ten feet ahead.

I whirled my head around, seeing Justin looking like he had just come out of a coma. Behind him, the trunk of our car was destroyed. The metal-head hadn’t anticipated my ridiculous idea.