Intended Extinction by Greg Hanks Page B

division. Everything west of that were the survivors, everything east was what we saw now: empty, decrepit monoliths.
    Our footsteps echoed off of the skyscrapers like tap shoes on a glass surface. We had been walking down Pearl Street for a good half hour, wondering when it would be far enough.
    My mind ripped through its own pages with such intensity that I almost felt dizzy with each new step. Who were those men? That question bored a hole so deep into my cortex that I couldn’t even remember why I was supposed to be feeling sick, or why I was supposed to be freaking out.
    I should have been freaking the hell out.
    I started to take my options into consideration, peeling them apart. The soldiers could have been terrorists. When the virus exploded across the globe, there were a lot of rogue groups trying to grab any sort of control. But why now? What could make someone suit up, arm up, and blow up a mere apartment complex?
    Of course, the most likely answer was Slate. Why Slate? I groaned from another unanswered question. Why GenoTec? Weren’t they curing us? Weren’t they responsible for every good thing about current Edge life? What would killing Slate accomplish anyways? Stop GenoTec from continuing research? Why would anyone want to live in the hell that Edge had created?
    Before I could think any more on the matter, I noticed our footsteps were starting to become slower.
    “How are you doing?” I asked.
    “Tired,” said Tara listlessly, watching her feet.
    I sighed and stopped. I felt it was far enough.
    “There’s a bench over there, c’mon,” I said.
    We hobbled over to a small, metal bench resting against an abandoned store. The awning above was ripped in a few places and a random sedan was parked in front.
    We sat in silence for a few moments, embracing the chilly air. I rested the rifle against the base of the bench and exhaled deeply. I began to wish we wouldn’t have stopped, because my shin was started to act up. I winced at a sudden throb of pain and reached down to adjust the makeshift bandage.
    “How is it?” asked Tara, leaning over to see.
    “It’s . . . okay,” I grunted. I finished fiddling with it and sat up. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    She looked up at me, confused. “What?”
    I grinned. “ ‘Why, oh, why did I call Mark Wenton?’ ”
    She smirked. It eventually faded. “Got any ideas yet?”
    She leaned out, propping her head with her arms.
    I laid back in defeat and exhaled, “Just more questions.”
    Tara observed the sedan for a minute. Through a rip in the awning, I could see a few stars blinking. I wished to be up there, away from all of this.
    “I don’t understand,” she said. “I feel like I’ve led a good life. I’ve done what I felt was right. No matter what I try to do, my life’s been screwed since day one.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
    I agreed completely, well, except for the part about doing “right” things.
    Her attempted ponytail was in shambles and traces of soot covered her face. Her jeans were ripped and burn marks adorned her boots. I probably looked a lot worse.
    Warmth exploded from my chest and my heart rate quickened. I reached over and placed my hand on hers.
    “Tara,” I said, “we’re gonna be okay.”
    She looked up at me. Even with the dim light of the moon and her unkempt appearance, she was still beautiful. Her hand grasped mine and she smiled faintly. “I’m glad you’re with me.”
    I wished I were better with words. Maybe I could have comforted her more. But I was never one to sugar coat things. I had no idea if we would be okay. Frankly, I was still paranoid that we were being followed. We needed hope. Well, we really needed answers, invincibility, and probably a tank or something—but realistically, we needed hope.
    The two of us sat there in the twilight, drifting off into the stage between sleep and awake. The pain in my leg became stronger and more frequent as time passed. My muscles ached, my lungs were