Intended Extinction by Greg Hanks Page A

scoffed.
    “He was standing right in front of us,” I rebutted. I turned back to Tara. “Something’s not right.”
    “Look,” started Davidson, “you two can have your little pow-wow. I’m not stickin’ ‘round for GenoTec. I would scram too, if I were you.”
    I sighed, but realized it was no use. Davidson took off toward the north, keeping his shotgun low and against his leg. I wondered where he had picked up the weapon in the first place.
    Tara sighed. “Mark. Kevin’s still in there.”
    Her comment was so endearing and real that it invaded my spine and filtered throughout my body.
    I shook my head. “Tara I don’t think we can go back.”
    She bit her lip, turning to the building. “What do you mean?”
    I grabbed her arm, making sure she focused. “Those Collectors led us here . . .”
    “No. Slate was there, too. There’s no way GenoTec could be behind this.”
    “I don’t want to be right. But I don’t want to take a chance, either.”
    “What are we going to do?” she asked desperately.
    Suddenly, Tara’s attention turned to the Turnmont doors. She gasped and pulled me down, so only our heads were visible above the car’s hood.
    Two men in armored suits stood inside the brightly lit hallway, dealing with their fallen companion. Another came outside, clearly looking for someone.
    “We need to run,” I said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here. The east side of town is deserted. Maybe we can lay low for a bit and figure this out without them on our back.”
    Tara’s eyes started to pool with tears. She turned back to the glass doors one last time before saying, “Okay. Let’s run.”

13
    I was back on the balcony. The card table sat on its side, leaving scattered remnants of my winning game. The floor bounced as people crammed into the emergency exit. I couldn’t move, though. The screaming girl petrified my bones. The blood spurting from her finger sprinkled my shoes.
    The young girl, somewhere in her late teens, gasped on her knees. Her shiny dress collected a pool of her own blood, and she started to pass out.
    I looked at my chips again. Why hadn’t she done this somewhere else?
    Nevertheless, I scooped her into my arms and rushed to the dance floor. By now, most of the people had escaped. In the middle of the large ballroom, security guards were stooped over a wailing girl sitting in her own blood puddle. They looked completely dubious. I looked at the frail girl in my grasp. Her head had fallen into the notch of my neck and chest, and the blood from her finger had stopped.
    I lumbered down the staircase, cradling the girl as I descended two steps at a time. On the way down, a larger man with a flannel shirt laid against one of the landing walls.
    “Hey!” he screamed, blood covering his pants and right hand.
    I stopped out of sheer confusion.
    “Please! Help me!” he continued.
    I hesitated. “What happened?!”
    “Please! I think I’m dying! Something’s happened!”
    “Look, I’ve got to get her downstairs. I’m sure help is on the way.”
    “No!” he spat. “Don’t leave me!”
    He groped at my pant leg as I stepped around his struggling heap. I sure as hell wasn’t going to carry him. As I hurried down the shaft, I heard his horrific pleas for help echoing from above.
    “Don’t leave me to die! You’re a monster! Help me! Somebody!”
    The memory faded.
    I shook my head and found myself in reality again. I don’t know why I had been having those memories lately. I never enjoyed reliving the time I contracted Edge.
    The glow of the night cast an eerie mask. Everything seemed to represent how our bodies felt: dark, dreary, and under siege.
    The eastern side of Manhattan exuded a haunting atmosphere. No lights, no life, and no armored soldiers. Thank God. It wasn’t exactly considered to be a part of the Dustslum, but still carried the same stagnant atmosphere. If you drew an imaginary line from Central Park all the way to The Cuts, that would be the