Alexander Plansky - Arcadia

As the engine roared to life, he turned his head in time see the astronaut aggressively slam its elbow into the window with a loud crack . Lewis closed his eyes and raised his arm protectively as shards of broken glass pelted him, feeling many bounce off and rain down on the cockpit floor. The next thing he knew, the astronaut’s arm wrapped around his throat and the attacker held him in a tight headlock.

“Just let it end, Desmond,” the synthetic voice hissed.

Lewis could barely breathe. His left hand tried to pry the arm around him free while the other frantically slapped at the excavator controls. He hit a button and suddenly the entire thing lurched forward, the diesel engine grinding to life. The astronaut jumped upward, grabbing a handle inside the cockpit through the broken window to keep itself off of the treads. Its grip tightened around his neck.

“It’s already begun,” the voice continued. “Her programming is complete. Even if you stop me here, we’ve already won. So let it end.”

Squinting in the harsh blue glare that shone over his shoulder, Lewis could just make out his and the astronaut’s reflections on the unbroken right window. The astronaut was mostly obscured by the bright light, but no, he could see it, spacesuit and all.

Look harder .

Blackness crept around the edges of his vision, his lungs burning for breath. There wasn’t much more of this he could take. He stared closely at the reflection and didn’t let his mind fill in the gaps. He actually couldn’t see his attacker’s face at all. Just its arm, strangling him. A normal human arm, dressed in a black suit jacket. And there, just below the blue light, he finally saw it. A sinister smile, the leer of a deranged lunatic.

The astronaut was gone.

Summoning the last of his strength, Lewis reached past his head to the right and his fingers fumbled for a hold. Finally, they grasped the handle and with the last of his strength, he pulled it.

The door opened and the next thing he knew he was falling through space. His back hit the treads and he nearly rolled off, but something grabbed his left leg and a blue glow washed over him. He looked back. The door had swung Bateman out further; he’d landed near the front of the moving treads and had latched onto Lewis to pull himself back up. Beneath the bright light of the headlamp, his face contorted red with a mixture of rage and terror.

Lewis kicked Bateman in the shoulder as he began hauling himself closer and scrambled back as the older man’s legs went over the edge. Jenna’s father still had a death grip around Lewis’s left ankle, preventing his escape, and it tightened as a stomach-turning crunch filled the air. Bateman’s agonized scream tore through his ears as Lewis pulled his right leg back for a final kick. His opponent’s lower torso completely disappeared from view just as Lewis slammed his heel into Bateman’s forehead. He finally let go long enough for Lewis to roll off the side of the advancing treads and hit the ground.

He turned back just in time to see Lance Bateman’s hand reach for the heavens as it slipped out of sight, illuminated blue from the headlamp beneath it. Then the light shut off and the wet crunching noises abruptly came to an end. Dark blood seeped out from under the treads as the vehicle continued its forward motion, glistening in the light of the full moon.

Lewis got up and began walking around behind the excavator toward the Malibu’s glaring headlights at the top of the entrance ramp.

In the darkness of the main lobby, Victor Zhao pulled himself up against the reception desk and began looking for a first-aid kit, only to find himself out of luck. The bullet was embedded deep in the back of his left shoulder, but he should be alright. Physically, at least. The truth he now knew about his employment and what had gone on here beneath his nose would scar his memory forever.

A pair of headlights swung around in front of the main glass doors, and a moment later Desmond Lewis stumbled in, covered in dirt and looking worse for wear.

“Bateman?” Zhao asked.

Lewis shivered. “Dead.”

“Well, that solves one problem.” He looked around the main lobby. This place had once been his pride and joy, but now it was just a bad dream. One that he couldn’t wake up from. He should’ve known Family First’s offer was too good to be true.

“I hoped that the bullet wouldn’t have killed you. I need you to do us both a huge favor.” Lewis ran up to him and handed him a business card. Zhao squinted at it in the dim light and barely made out the words “Sara Gonzalez”, but definitely recognized the FBI insignia at the top.

“What is this?” he said.

“Call 9-1-1, get someone out here for your wound and to clean up the bodies. But you need to call this FBI agent, she’s been assigned to the nationwide case. Tell her about the Dream Machine, the Batemans, Rogue Horizon , all of it. There are other Family First conspirators back in L.A. who she can bring down. This’ll make national headlines.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Zhao said. Lewis began running back to the doors. “Where are you going?”

“After Jenna. They still have her. Whatever happens to her or me, call that number.” He disappeared out into the night.

Zhao leaned over the reception phone, picked it up with his blood-covered hand, and began rapidly dialing.

The open road stretched away before his headlights, yellow dashes rapidly flashing by on his left. The Malibu’s speedometer ticked past a hundred, but he didn’t worry about a stray cop at the side of the highway. The only thing that mattered to him was finding how far they’d gotten back to Vegas with their head-start. He was back on US-93 now, the Great Basin Highway; at this hour of the night, it was a lonely express back to civilization.

His bloodshot eyes watched the road curve softly through the desert, his body subconsciously leaning into each turn. Lewis knew he was exhausted, but adrenaline had taken over. It coursed through his veins and guided him as if he were a puppet. It and his determination were the only things keeping him running right now. Otherwise, after all that had happened, all he now knew, he probably would’ve collapsed back at Arcadia.

Then he saw something loom up ahead and slammed on the brakes. The car swiftly reduced its speed and came to a halt. Lewis blinked, shocked at the sight before him.

A black Chevy Suburban lay upside-down in the middle of the road. The body of a woman lay near it, face down.

Lewis threw open the Malibu’s door and cautiously moved toward the wreck, turning on his phone’s flashlight.

“Hello?” he called. Nothing answered him but the frigid nocturnal breeze. He approached the body and turned it over, jumping back in disgust. It was Katelyn Caruso, a shard of glass jammed deep into her trachea. Blood pooled beneath her, and her face was frozen in a look of abject terror.

Then another voice arose on the wind. “Please… oh please, don’t darling, I love you–”

There was a quick scream, then it was over.

Lewis turned off the flashlight and advanced around the rear of the overturned SUV very, very slowly. Then he looked around the corner.

A figure was hunched over a dead body, stabbing it again and again. “Go away,” they said. “I won’t let you hurt me, I won’t let you – no, no…” They broke down in sobs, their arms falling to their sides.

In the moonlight, Lewis saw a bloody glass shard clutched in the figure’s right hand. Gradually, he began to approach them.

“Jenna,” he said. “It’s okay, they’re not going to hurt you anymore.”