Episode 32, “An Army”
[image error]His joints hurt again. He could feel the fatigue deep in his bones, feel the Sleeper poison and the stimulants Montauk had given him, feel the punishment he had taken breaching the school and smashing its defenses. He paused to lean against the bloody wall of the laboratory. His hand left a broad print on the wall.
He wanted to rest. The lift door faced him. He pressed the button and the doors opened.
He cast one last look at the destruction he had wrought. His rage had cooled. The thought of what might have been, how Annika might have died, the abuse she suffered at the hands of those working here, still ached with in him. But his fury was sated. He had made them pay. But he was not finished.
He would find this VanClef. He would find the man responsible for all of this. He would wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and squeeze until the government agent had told him everything about Peyton’s little girl.
And then there would be no more VanClef at all.
He slumped against the wall of the elevator as it traveled, slowly, to the surface. The girls had rigged the entire complex, interfered with its defenses, fouled its computers. There was very little Annika could not do with access to a computer. How much power could half a dozen Annikas wield?
Making his way through the defenses he had destroyed, Peyton reached the outer exit. Montauk, or those with the Og, had sealed the outer barrier. He moved this aside and stepped out.
“IAN PEYTON,” said an amplified voice. “LAY DOWN ON THE GROUND AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD.”
A howling wind pushed him back against the facade of the factory. The circle of light that fell on him was blinding. He looked up, searching for its source, trying to shield his eyes with his hand.
A hundred rifles clacked as their bolts were pulled back. Servomotors groaned as the turret of a multi-tracked battletank trained its mounted gun on him. The men using the tank for cover wore light-scattering camouflage. Their outlines blurred against the asphalt and debris of the cul de sac.
Peyton looked up at the helicopter. A cold rain was falling now. It danced across his face as he squinted against the beam of the chopper’s spotlight. He pressed his hands together. He flexed his fingers. He squeezed his fists.
“An army,” said Peyton. “You need an army to stop me.”
“THIS IS AGENT VINCENT BRIDGER OF GOVERNMENT INTELLIGENCE,” announced the public address system in the helicopter. “IAN PEYTON, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. COMPLY OR YOU WILL BE KILLED.”
“You made a mistake,” Peyton said to no one. “Annika isn’t here. She’s with someone who can protect her. She doesn’t need me now.”
Annika. He had almost killed her. To die at his hands would have been better than being torn about by Sleepers. But what kind of father put his daughter in such danger? He had been selfish. It had been selfish to take her from the prison. It had been selfish to believe he could parent her.
“COMPLY OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”
He was big. He was strong. He healed quickly. But the battle with the Sleepers, the attack on the school, had taken much of his strength. As he stared into the guns of the soldiers before him, as he watched the black maw of the tank turret track him, he realized that he had come to the end. He could not beat them all.
He was going to die. He was going to die, and that was all right.
His death was just. It was long overdue. Montauk, the Og, was a decent creature. It had adopted Aimee; it would adopt Annika. Peyton’s daughter was a genius, and now she had her fellow students from the school for company. If losing him made her sad, it would only be for a little while. She had lived for twelve years without him. The few weeks they had been together would hardly matter to her.
One last fight. One last fight to give Annika and Montauk more time. With each passing minute, they got farther away from the school. As long as Bridger and his tank and his helicopter and his soldiers were here, murdering Peyton, they were not following Peyton’s daughter.
“Come kill me,” said Peyton, flexing his fists. He took a step forward, then another. He felt the cords of muscle in his arms tighten as he flexed his shoulders, rolling his forearms out and away from his body. Splaying his fingers, he spread his arms, as if he would gather the government troops up and crush them. “Come kill me, you cowards! I’m not a little girl!”
“OPEN FIRE,” said Bridger.
Peyton took another step toward his death.
The gunfire that burned the air filled the cul de sac with thunder. The buildings vibrated under the onslaught, shaking loose fragments of themselves, creating a dust cloud that rolled over the battleground and turned Peyton and his enemies into shadows.
Bullets ripped his flesh. He felt them hammer him, felt them stagger him, felt them drive him to his knees. It was all right. He did not have to stop it; he could give in to the pain; he could lie down and rest. But he was not ready to rest. Not yet. There was more left in him, and while there was, he would use it to help Annika escape.
He regained his feet, pushing up on one leg, forcing the other to support him. It was like climbing from a manhole into a sandstorm. Projectiles continued to gouge him, rip him, slice him. He took a trembling step. A man with a rifle ran to him, blazing away on full automatic. Peyton slapped the soldier’s gun away and punched him so hard his face caved in.
He took another step.
He was nearly knocked off balance. He could no longer feel his legs. He could see his fingers flex, could see his fists close, but he could not feel them. His hearing was no longer working. The sound of gunfire was now a whining, the ringing of a bell that never stopped. His vision began to recede, blackening around the edges, turning a strange shade of orange.
He dropped to one knee, then to both. He fell forward onto his stomach. The ringing in his ears became the roaring of an ocean.
He did not hear the canister that fell from the helicopter, but he saw it. There was another. There was a third. He stared at the green cylinder, feeling his flesh tearing, feeling the blood pour from him.
The canister began to spew gas.
The gas was black and acrid. It was poison. It rolled over him, scorching his lungs, making his chest seize. He did not feel the pavement against his face. He did not hear the soldiers dying around him. He did not feel the downdraft of the helicopter as it hovered over him. Dark mist was everywhere.
There is no safe. But for Annika, there was. He should never have taken her with him. But now she was safe with the Ogs, with the other girls. He had made a mistake, but he had fixed it, and now he was going to pay for everything.
That was the funny thing about mistakes. Sometimes they got away from you.
“Annika,” he whispered, dying. “I love you.”
