David Robbins - Chicago Run

For months he’d behaved as if no bullet could harm him, no knife end his life. He’d waded into the thick of battles without the slightest of qualms or cares. And always he’d emerged triumphant. His soul had pulsed with vibrant power.

Then he’d lost it.

Somewhere along the line he’d lost that special feeling. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact moment, but by the time he took on the Technics again in Green Bay his regression had been obvious.

Why? Why? Why ?

Did the aftermath of an NDE, that awareness of an inner glow and a sense of being endowed with surpreme wisdom, only persist for a limited time? Were the spiritually pure experiences of the soul somehow diluted by the body? He didn’t know.

Oh, he’d resisted lapsing back into his old mind-set. He’d fought it, tried to artificially reproduce the feeling, to no avail. And when he finally admitted he’d lost the greatest treasure a person could own, an emptiness had pervaded his being. It was as if he’d been turned upside down and a crucial part of his personality had poured out, ever to be reclaimed again.

But he wanted to reclaim that feeling. He longed to know true inner joy again.

To compensate for the emptiness, he’d developed and nurtured a burning urge to repay the Technics for Alicia’s death. Even though he’d met someone new, a lovely woman named Melissa who loved him as much as Alicia ever did, and even though a measure of happiness had returned to his life, he’d been unable to diminish his drive for vengeance.

By all rights he should have gone after the Technics when Alicia died instead of moping for months. He’d concocted 101 excuses to justify his failure: There were too many Technics; Technic City was too far; too much time had elapsed for the vengeance to have any meaning. They’d all been lame excuses.

Ultimately the strain had proven too much. He’d pondered the matter for weeks on end, and then simply left the Home and all those he cared for to satisfy his obsessive urge. He’d sacrificed his future as a Warrior to pay his debt to the past. He’d decided to topple the Technic government.

Perhaps he’d always known the task was impossible for a single man to achieve. Perhaps he’d eluded himself and carried through with the scheme because secretly he’d wanted to fail. How else could he rationalize the suicidal mission? One man against millions was laughable odds.

A new thought occurred to him, and he balked at acknowledging it: What if he’d hoped to die so he could rejoin Alicia? He had to admit the idea appealed to him.

Or did it go deeper than that?

Had a subtle death wish seized his soul because he yearned to journey to the next level again, because he had tasted Heaven and couldn’t tolerate life on earth? The other side had been so peaceful, so indescribably wonderful, totally unlike the gritty reality of existence on planet Earth.

Who wouldn’t crave a steady diet of sterling perfection, sublime love, and exalted beauty after wallowing in the moral morass of mortal uncertainty?

Yama tried to turn his head but there was no head to turn. Where are you ? he tried to scream. Where is the tunnel and the light and Alicia?

I’m here.

Take me.

But he drifted along without a response. Where am I? he asked himself repeatedly. Is this another level? Is this the opposite of light and life?

Is this—Hell?

The idea jolted him. He’d never given much credence to the fire-and-brimstone sort of eternal damnation for wicked sinners, although the justice of the punishment merited his approval. Could this blank nothingness be Hell, or was there yet another level where raging cold flames tormented the souls of the degenerately evil? If so, where was he?

Wherever it was, once again the fact that a mortal’s life didn’t end at the grave was impressed upon him. The awareness invigorated him like a cold shower on the hottest of days, tingling his consciousness and renewing the long-lost feeling of cosmic awareness.

Once again he knew.

He knew!

With the knowing came a dizzying sensation as the black hole in which he floated abruptly collapsed upon itself and sucked him down with it.

First sense: hearing. There were muffled voices around him, men and women speaking in hushed tones as if they didn’t want to wake him up.

He catalogued their comments.

“Where can he be from?”

“I don’t know, but he sure as hell isn’t from Techhic City.”

“Why did he help us?”

“Who knows? I doubt we’ll find out because the doctor doesn’t think he’ll live until morning.”

Second sense: smelling. He registered the aroma of frying meat and boiling vegetables, spinach and corn.

Third sense: touch. He realized he was lying on his back on a hard surface, his arms at his sides. From the lack of weight in his holsters he deduced his weapons had been taken. Not nice.

“Here comes Falcone,” said a man.

The soft tread of rubber soles announced the arrival of the newcomer and a deep voice asked, “Any sign of life yet?”

“No. The doc just checked him a few minutes ago. His heart is barely beating and his body temperature has dropped to critical levels. There’s little hope.”

“Damn. Too bad. He might have proven useful,” Falcone said.

Yama heard the rustle of clothing and felt warm breath on his face. The one called Falcone must be examining him in the hope of detecting a spark of life. Why disappoint the man? He opened his eyes to find a rugged, dark-haired man intently regarding him, their noses almost touching. The man’s blue eyes expanded in shock.

Someone gasped.

Time to rejoin the living, Yama reflected. His right hand swept up and clamped on Falcone’s neck, and he surged into a sitting position. Under him was a metal table, and surrounding it were seven people wearing light blue uniforms, all armed. They were astounded by his revival and for five seconds no one moved except Falcone, who tried to wrench loose of Yama’s grip but couldn’t.

A blond guy drew a pistol and pointed it at the Warrior’s head. “Let go of him!” he barked.

“Where are my weapons?” Yama inquired.

“Screw your weapons. Let go of Falcone,” the guy repeated, and the others brought their own firearms to bear.

Yama started to slide from the table, still retaining his hold on the now furiously resisting Falcone. The man battered at Yama’s arm, but the blows were barely felt.

“Don’t move!” the blond guy cried. “We’ll shoot.”

“Be my guest,” Yama said calmly, placing his feet on the tile floor. He straightened and squared his wide shoulders as more people in blue converged on him, forming a ring three or four deep. Beyond them spread a spacious chamber with lavender walls and a vaulted orange ceiling, comfortably furnished with four plush sofas and twice as many chairs.

“Let go of him!” a woman demanded.

“Where are my weapons?” Yama repeated, scanning their angry faces, noting an even mix of sexes and a range of ages from the late teens to the early sixties.

A white-haired man pushed through the ring, calling out, “Don’t shoot.

Don’t anyone shoot.” He halted in front of the Warrior and looked fearlessly up into the big man’s eyes. “Please don’t kill him.”

“Where are my weapons?”

“We can’t give them to you.”

“You have no choice.”

The man did a double take. “How do you propose to obtain them?

You’ll be dead before you take a step.”

Yama let the corners of his mouth curl upwards and saw the chilling effect it had. “I can not die.”

“What?” the white-haired man responded.

“You have until I count to ten to return my weapons. If you haven’t done so, then the Resistance Movement will come to an abrupt, inglorious end.”