Alexander Plansky - Arcadia

Both Jackson and Zhao looked like sailors who had realized their captain had lost touch with reality and was currently steering them into a maelstrom.

“I think you’re the one who needs help,” Lewis said.

“No Desmond, this country is sick. And this is the bitter pill it needs to swallow.”

Suddenly, he turned and grabbed the pistol out of the holster on Jackson’s right hip and brought it up. The guard barely registered what was happening in time to turn his head in surprise, before Bateman pulled the trigger with the barrel less than a foot from the man’s face. Blood and brains jetted from the back of Jackson’s head as he fell back, a gaping dark hole torn through his right eye socket. Zhao turned and ran, but Bateman lined up a shot on him next and fired. He went down as a crimson spurt erupted from the back of his left shoulder.

He turned to Lewis next, who backed away with his gun still aimed. “Don’t worry, I know you don’t really know how to fire that thing. Otherwise, you would’ve shot me by now. It’s time to clean up this mess. And unfortunately, Desmond… that includes you.”

Bateman raised the pistol toward him and fired again.

Lewis ran as the bullet missed him by a wide margin. Fortunately, Bateman was a terrible shot. He’d only hit Jackson and Zhao because they’d been so close.

He sprinted down the corridor, loosing off a few shots behind him. The gun roared and kicked in his hand, and it hurt his wrist; he clearly wasn’t holding it right. Then it clicked empty and he dropped it as he ran. Bateman leaned out from around a corner back where the hallway met the lobby, fired a couple more rounds after him, then darted forward to chase him on foot.

Lewis burst through the rear door and was hit with a gust of cold air, but it barely slowed him down as he turned on his heel and began running along the building toward the asphalt drive that divided the compound.

Even though Bateman’s motives were insane, everything finally made sense. When he called after the incident with Charlie and asked Lewis if he’d noticed anything different in Jenna’s behavior, he wasn’t expressing a legitimate concern. He had assumed his daughter had been playing Rogue Horizon and expected Lewis to tell him about the resulting changes in her actions. But Lewis hadn’t noticed any changes because she’d only played the beginning of the game and hadn’t gotten around to playing more of it since. He’d spent so much time wondering if she had been playing more and why she would be lying to him that he hadn’t questioned the real reason her father would ask that. Jenna hadn’t changed at all for the past several weeks.

Lewis turned on the road and began sprinting the length of the Entertainment Center. Bateman had been hot on his tail. He’d be right around the corner behind him any second now, the pistol kicking wildly in his hand. Lewis had to get back in the front entrance, snatch some keys off of either Jackson or Zhao, and then steal a car before Bateman could shoot him.

Suddenly, up ahead, a black Chevy Malibu swerved around the corner and gunned its engine straight toward him. Lewis froze. His vision darted left and right: he was trapped between the side wall of the building and the chain-link fencing that surrounded the construction site.

Quickly, he made his decision.

Lewis ran to the side and jumped up as he reached a gate in the fence, grabbing handholds and scrambling upward to find purchase with his feet. He flipped himself over the top, only to see the ground sloping downward, an entrance ramp for vehicles into the pit. He hit the dirt at an angle and rolled painfully down twenty-five feet to the base.

Up above, tires swerved and suddenly the front of the Malibu burst through the gate, metal swinging outward and clanging along the sides. Still lying in the dirt, Lewis rolled onto his back.

The car door opened and a figure stepped out.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered.

Shutting the door and staring down at him from the top of the hill was the astronaut, the blue glow from within its helmet even harsher than it had been in the Dream Machine. It held a pistol in its right hand.

“Hi, Desmond,” it said in a synthetic version of Lance Bateman’s voice.

Then it aimed the gun at him.

Ignoring the pain he felt all over, Lewis got up and ran as a shot cracked behind him and whizzed by. The construction site was a large pit comprised of several large cargo containers scattered around and an area toward the corner diagonally across from him where a steel frame was being built. An excavator was parked next to it.

Lewis took cover behind one of the cargo crates and caught his breath. This couldn’t be happening. It was Bateman chasing him, not the astronaut. He peered around the corner. At first, he just saw a blue light swinging around in the dark. Then something in his vision flickered and he saw it, the astronaut, clear as day.

“I know you’re out here, Desmond,” it said in its electronic voice.

He flinched back into his cover, his breathing uneven. Get it together. Staying focused, Lewis turned and crept along the side of the cargo crate. He had to think fast. The Malibu’s engine purred softly at the top of the slope. Could he sneak around behind Bateman, steal it, and get out? It was possible, as long as his pursuer got far out enough into the construction site that he couldn’t double back in time to stop him.

Lewis slipped around the back of the container and continued along the other side. He could see his goal about thirty feet away. The car’s headlights shone out from the top of the slope and bathed the pit in bright light. The astronaut was nowhere in sight.

He had just begun to run forward when suddenly it jumped out from beside the crate, raising the gun and firing. Lewis slid to the ground in the nick of time just as the gun went off. It tried to fire the weapon again, but it clicked empty. The astronaut tossed the useless weapon aside and looked down, directing its blue light into his eyes.

Lewis brought up his hand to shield his face and blinked as it came closer. For a second he saw Lance Bateman, still in his black suit as he had been in the lobby, but with some kind of bright blue headlamp strapped around his forehead – then in the next blink, the astronaut stood before him again.

“Running only prolongs the inevitable,” it said. “Haven’t you suffered enough, Desmond?” The astronaut tilted its head to the side as it looked at him. “Aren’t you ready to join your brother?”

Frantic now, Lewis got to his feet and ran away in the opposite direction. He dashed past two other cargo crates but had already made up his mind. There was only one more place that seemed safe here.

The excavator.

Parked up against the rear edge of the pit, it was big and yellow, with a large hydraulic bucket mounted to the right of the cockpit and two massive tank treads on each side. Lewis ran around and jumped up on the left tread, then grabbed the door and pulled. Thankfully, no one felt the need to lock it out here in the middle of the desert, and it swung wide open.

He climbed in, shut the door, and locked it, then began anxiously looking around the cockpit for keys. It wasn’t too cramped in here, but there wasn’t much extra space. Two joysticks sat on each side of the chair and a number of pedals lay at his feet that he didn’t know what to do with. He looked up at the ceiling and saw there was a sun visor, just like in a car.

Lewis flipped it down and the key fell out, clanking to the floor. He bent down and felt around the floor for it with both hands. When he finally found it, he slid it into the ignition and turned the key just as a bright blue light appeared off to his left.