Death Drive

Chapter 21

As bullets tore the apartment to smithereens and his life might have been ended at any moment by one such unlucky shot, Thomas was at peace. His companions had climbed out and gone down the fire escape and now there only existed the door and the unseen enemies behind it. He would hold them back as long as he could. His body felt light, like he had youthened a few decades, everything so sharp he could see the motes of dust wafting in the air. It reminded him of his racing days; he could still remember many of his races from start to finish down to the minutest detail, yet he could not remember what he had done just last week, as his life had become a routine-driven rut that impressed a blur of an image at best. Like in those high-octane competitions of breakneck speed and audacious daredevilry, so were his senses now sharpened enough to carve a clear mark into his consciousness, his blood and passion so inflamed as to brand themselves permanently to his recollection, as opposed to the turbid smears left by the lukewarm swill of life the people of their city waded through, most without even dreaming of purer springs or stormy seas.

One such toad of pestilential swamps croaked as the flat's tenant heavily drew breath into lungs rapidly filling with blood. He had been shot by the people he had assumed as his saviors, the reality he had denied for so long now showing its might as pain more genuine that anything that one could find even in the most advanced of simulations.

"It's not fair," he sputtered, before his multiple chins fell against his chest as he passed out.

Thomas welcomed his quietude as his spewing had made listening to movements outside difficult. One could have heard a pin drop, and he didn't dare to check his remaining ammunition, thinking it would allow his opponents to home in on his location. Faint rustling sounds came from the hallway. He had used up much of his little ammunition, so he decided to make every shot count and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.

An arm swiftly jabbed from the doorway, flinging something in the room. The object bounced, ringing metallically and rolled across the floor, coming to rest between him and the dying man. Seeing the cylinder, he attempted to charge out of the window but was too late. The next thing he knew he was blind; his eardrums had been punched in and he could not seem to get up from the floor. Someone grabbed the gun from his hand and he punched in their direction, not hitting anything. Something hard hit his head and he had time to feel the brunt of the pain before a second blow brought full blackout.

The van bounced, shaking him awake. He lay on his face on the floor, his arms tied behind his back. He looked around, moving as little as he could. Two men sat next to him, one to each side. They didn't seem to be paying attention to him, apparently too busy studying whatever they were being fed by their smartglasses. The driver's seat was empty, the van piloted by the onboard computer to the guidance of its cybernated master. The men didn't act like the people he had seen trapped within their cars, confirming his suspicions; they must have been of the chosen few, destined to inherit the Earth.

He tested his binds without any luck and, thinking it a good sign they had taken him captive instead of killing him, decided to wait and see where they were headed. His captors were wearing bulletproof vest on top of typical office clothes, the armpits of their dress shirts stained with sweat. They didn't strike him as special ops or anything even comparable to that; their vests and other gear hung loosely and awkwardly on them, like they had put them on for the first time and in a hurry. The man to his left was fingering the Desert Eagle he had taken from Thomas.

The van came to a stop and the men got up.

"Pick him up," the portly man to his right said.

"Who, me?" the bearded man to his left answered nasally. "You pick him up."

"I've got my hand full with this gun," the other man said, lifting his assault rifle higher. "Just give him a few kicks."

"I know you're awake, Thomas," an incorporeal voice intoned via the speakers. "Do not make this harder than it needs to be."