the big one

chapter one: hangfire position

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Beans yanked the garage rope down and shut out the blazing sun with a metallic clang. He turned to face us, shifting his Tigers cap up on his head. We were all sweating and breathing hard, arranged in a semicircle opposite him. A week before the invasion, climate authorities had been claiming it as the hottest July in the last fifty years. Everyone was talking water conservation. Radio News instructed old folks to stay indoors. That was six days ago. Now the radio was silent.

Inside the stifling garage, the five of us set down our packs, adjusting to the shadows. Any movement caused puffs of choking dust to swirl, so we kept as still as we could. Beans hunkered and wet his finger, then started to lay out lines on the sooty concrete floor. He pointed:

“Ok, we’re here. This is Royal York. This is the park. Here’s Pop’s. Benny, your dad’s truck is for sure out back?" He flicked his eyes over to Benny.

“That’s right Beans.” Benny crowded forward and licked his own finger. He drew a couple lines on the garage floor, adding to Beans’ map. “But they’ve got the school. The car lot....”

From the get-go, the plan to make the run out of town was a longshot. The Concern had us all tagged. Chicken’s leg was broken and both Benny and Bobby were going grey from the Afflict. Professor Niehl’s jam charge was about 15 minutes from spent. Things were gonna have to happen fast.

“We all agree, we can’t make it through the park, right?” Nods. “So, it’s the alleys then.”

I leaned in to situate myself on the diagram. Across from him, it took a second to reverse the plan, but then I figured out where he wanted us to head. It took another second to realize what it meant.

The rest of the guys had seen it too. Cigarettes appeared and Chicken looked down at her busted shin.

“Comments?”

He’d meant it for me. I knew saying nothing was the only way to keep panic at bay. He knew it too. It wasn't like, at fifteen, any of us had given much thought to death, til now. We shared steady eye contact and instead I methodically checked down my arsenal.

“Five capsules, double-sixes are stocked. Regen pack stocked. Let’s take the fucking alleys.“

Maybe the rest took a heartbeat, but the guys sounded off in good order, one after the other. Beans’ eyes cast the Eagle at us.“Alright guys. The alleys. Let’s do it.”

All told we were pretty well-armed. But travelling that way, through the alleys, we’d be naked. Any airborne, or if our jam wore off, we’d be begging to get husked. The Concern were bringing in the heavies now. No need for cloak-and-dagger stuff. It was raw power. Total destruction. But at least we could see what we were up against. Better than the terror of not knowing who was real,and who’d been replicated.

Me and Benny took one arm each, supporting Chick. Bobby leaned up against the backdoor of the garage and filled up with breath. Beans was in the back and he looked at each of us in turn. We were ready. Steady.

“Go!”

The first meta-slugs took Bobby in the chest, pulverizing him into red mist. Somehow Benny propelled himself and Chicken forward out the doorway. Spinning away from them to the right, I fired wildly into the sun. Monstrous shapes closed in. They had us surrounded. In that first blast of white light and heat, all I could perceive was the crackling of slugs zipping past my head; then feeling Chicken crumple down and then Benny’s truncated scream. Behind me enormous bodies pummeled the garage; huge, paralysing concussions. Burning chips of wood and metal stung my face and hands. I was on fire. Through the warble and hiss, i jerked back towards Beans but there was nothing left. No garage. No Beans. Nothing. The downsplash from the rotors of the heli above blasted the flames. Almost a balm. It was over in seconds.

chapter two: the roughriders

I’m not sure how long I’d been KIA. Not long enough though. Because every single second of my resurrection was a living, burning hell. The Re-Gen injection dangled from my chest like a stupid arrow. Amazed, I focused downwards on a ponderous bead of blood, sliding down the silver needle. So mesmerized by the oddity of the syringe protruding from my heart, for a merciful moment, the unholy stench of my immolation didn’t even register. Only after the searing hammer of pain slammed me into total awareness did I inhale the putrefied taste of burned human flesh.

Regenesis, as I later learned, often kills again. The accompanying pain is so intense, the recipient’s heart perforates from the pressure. Encore la morte. Within 48 hours, of the 3% revival rate, half again expire due to catastrophic stress. And even when the dead live, they’re often blacked out; so depressed they’re useless for life.

The day of my resurrection I knew none of that. Just the cauterizing agony of my life regenerating one searing cell at a time. But inside all of this, beyond my physical torment, there was a cold awareness of something else. An inarticulate, malevolent presence; a moray coiling in some dark subconscious fissure. Like a guilt, or a shame lurking inside your guts, washing up against you in the middle of the night. An incrimination. A taunt.

Then it was gone.

An armoured hand appeared around the syringe and unceremoniously jerked it out. I coughed and vomited.

“He’s back, sir.”

“Fine. Now, let’s get moving. Roughriders, mount up!”

Captain Roland Forty-Four rose fifteen feet into the air on the back of the largest cat I’d ever seen.

“Welcome back sonny.” I heard my father say. And then I blacked out.

chapter three: regret the tone

'first, do no harm', is how it was put to Benny by Dread Cardinal Allin during basic training. First principles. you do not want to fuck someone else up. That is the premise that ought to guide us, he thought. Another way he heard it was, 'we make our own monsters'. But what words can defuse our need for revenge? When the worst has been done to us... or anything that hurts. Who sees themself as a monster anyway? Doesn't everyone have a story? Isn't it, in the end, what you can live with? Would you want me dead if it meant rescue from devastation?

What can you hope for? What principle tells us anything we can actually fucking use? Yet, today -- he understood like a man should understand -- it was his turn to pay. With each slug of whiskey this became more apparent. Until he had decided that it was practically incumbent upon him to seek out actual, tangible judgement. Passions rule. Plain and simple.

Luckily, he passed out in the ditch before he agented these mortal impusles. For all of us there is doubt and a pure moment when we percieve everything we'll never have. And you can blame your lover, or your position, or your time. And who'd blame you if you snap and freak the fuck out? All those scientific laws of attraction and gravity and never any mention of what it feels like to get fucked for real.