Jeff Somers - Digital Plague

Head fuzzy, the back of my coat wet with my own blood, I pushed myself into motion, running toward her. Running away was suicide, and I needed an advantage.

I smacked into her after a second or two of breathless staggered running, easily knocking her out of the air-it was still Glee’s body, and it weighed nothing. I let my momentum carry me toward her landing spot, based on the sound, and the lamp snapped back on as I landed on her. If I’d wanted to, I could have aimed my boot for her neck, but I couldn’t. She was half twisted around for another gymnastic leap when I landed on her, putting one knee into her back and pushing her down onto the floor with prejudice, getting an involuntary gasp of air forced out of her lungs as my reward. Before I could consolidate my position she bent an arm behind her impossibly and slashed blindly with her blade, making me jerk backward to avoid it, giving her just enough leverage to push herself up with her free arm and spill me off her.

I kept her in view and got my feet under me as she cartwheeled away, the lamp shutting off again. Listening to the alternate slaps of her hands and feet on the floor, I drew in a damp, ragged breath of rotten air that tasted slick and yellow. I pictured my sky-silent, a soft wind blowing, peaceful and quiet. I pictured the clouds and that electric feeling that rain was coming, and I listened to her flesh slapping against the cold floor, picturing her moving through the room, sailing over debris and bodies and circling back around to me. When gunfire erupted to my right I ignored it, made it distant thunder on the horizon, a rainstorm that wasn’t going to affect me.

The lamp flickered back on, and she was closer to me than I expected, still moving head over heels in a rapid cartwheel Glee would never have managed when she was… still with me. I barely had time to register her approach before she was on her feet in front of me, slashing savagely, her face completely expressionless, empty eyes locked on me. There was nothing there-not hatred, not anger, nothing. I stumbled backward and knocked her blade aside with my gun. She leaned low and slashed at my belly, missing by a molecule. I was off-balance; with each stagger I deflected the knife-from my face, my chest, my abdomen-sometimes with a well-placed slap of the gun, sometimes just with my arm, taking deep cuts for my trouble, since my coat offered little protection from her diamond-sharp blade. Red spittle exploded from me with each painful hitch of my chest and my legs seemed the heaviest things I’d ever lifted. My gun was just a weight in my hand. Even if I could have beaten her reflexes, which I wasn’t sure about, I couldn’t shoot Glee. I couldn’t shoot something that looked like Glee.

There was a quick pattern-head, belly, chest, head, belly, chest-so I took a chance, and after knocking a chest thrust aside I ducked low and barreled forward, butting my head into her belly as hard as I could and putting everything I had into pushing her back, keeping her off-balance.

She twisted away and I stumbled several steps before getting my balance back. As I ran in a wide circle I caught a glimpse of Belling and Lukens backed into a corner and pouring fire at three leaping figures. It was like a tableau, everyone frozen, muzzle flashes and ragged bloody people suspended in the air, Belling’s face squinted up in concentration, Lukens looking like she was going over her laundry list, bored.

When the lamp shut off again I decided it was high time I ran away. I wasn’t going to shoot her and I wasn’t going to beat those nano-sharpened reflexes. I oriented on the back of the room and sucked in as deep a breath as I could manage, my chest twitching into convulsions. I ran with a heavy, uneven tread. When the lamp flared up I didn’t need to look to know she was right on me: her slapping feet were thunderous. I threw myself up and around, my back protesting with searing pain, just in time to knock her blade aside once more. My thrust didn’t have any power behind it, though, and she immediately righted herself, diving forward. I knew at once that I didn’t have the traction or strength to get out of her range this time. This time was going to end with my guts spilled on the floor.

Then I was yanked backward, landing hard on my ass and skidding a few extra feet while Glee belly flopped onto the floor. Hands gripped my shoulders, and for a second I was floating back, staring at Glee’s red hair, my gun pointed at the center of her head out of habit, my finger on the trigger. A tiny bit of pressure and that would be it, but still I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill her again.

Marko was looming over me, a trickle of blood leaking out of his nose. He looked used up and shiny. “ You’re the most wanted Gunner in New York?” he asked, panting. “You’re getting your ass kicked by a kid!”

“You touch her,” I hissed back, “I’ll kill you. ” I pushed him away and climbed to my feet-slow, too fucking slow. I felt like I’d aged a thousand years, my insides cheesed out, my blood poisoned. I saw myself dying, eaten away, and then getting up again a few days later, repaired, my eyes flat, my brain consumed and used as spackle for the rest of me.

And then Glee was crashing into me again and slicing three times deep across my belly as I stumbled back toward the counter. Entirely on instinct I shoved my gun into her stomach and fired twice, knocking her little body back onto the floor just as the lamp flickered off again.

I stared into the darkness where she’d been a second before. From my right I could see flashes of light as Belling and Lukens handled their own problems, but I tuned out the gunfire. I’d killed her again. Just like I’d killed everyone. Everyone I’d ever known was dead, or would be soon. Except Dick Marin, the eternal, smiling Richard Marin, Director, SSF Internal Affairs. And, it seemed, Dennis Squalor, the ever-fucking living. Those two roaches were going to kick each other around the dead world when it was all said and done.

It was always the big shots who started this shit up. I’d been on a fucking rail for the past week, going from point A to point B, a fucking puppet. I get pinched and dragged here, I get plucked into the air by a fucking Spook and dragged there. I’m pushed into a room and there’s Glee, and I have to kill her because that’s what the fucking universe dictates. Then I have to go into another room and kill Ty Kieth- betray Ty Kieth-because that’s the next thing the universe wants. I’m on a rail. I’d been on a rail my whole life.

The lamp flickered back on. When I saw her there, gasping like a beached fish, dead eyes locked on me, I was almost surprised. She was bleeding heavily and obviously couldn’t breathe, but there was no writhing, no sign of pain-just those eyes, staring at me. I ran my eye over her wound and figured I’d hit an artery, and estimated she’d be dead… again… in about five minutes. Her chest spasmed, her hands clenched and unclenched, her mouth was working, but she just stared at me. I forced myself to meet her eyes and watch. I felt like I had to watch.

Dimly, I could hear gunfire. I felt Marko tugging at my coat. I ignored it all and just watched her die, the rhythmic fountains of blood getting weaker and more random, her spasms subsiding. I watched as her hands went still. I watched as her chest shuddered and stopped twitching. Her eyes didn’t change. I knew she had to be dead but her eyes remained open and on me, just as flat and empty as before. Marko’s tugging became insistent, and the gunfire came rushing back into my ears. As I stared at her, she twitched and made a horrible sucking noise. I blinked as she started to breathe again, horrible shuddering gasps as if an invisible fist were pumping her chest up and down.