Something sinister was afoot. A rotten smell assaulted Connor’s nose, waking him from his sleep. It wasn’t the first time that morning.

“Can you stop farting, dude? My head’s right here!”

His brother laughed. Connor raised a foot and kicked the lump shaped depression in the spring mattress above him. Bunk-beds were a hazard at the best of times - doubly so when a walking bio-hazard of a brother slept above you.

“Ow! Chill, dick!”

“Every morning! Every fucking morning!” yelled Connor, aiming another kick at his brother’s back.

“I’m helping you get up… Ow!” replied Avery, laughing.

Connor rolled over to check his phone. “Some fucking help” he moaned. It was five to six in the morning. Five minutes before his alarm went off. Avery’s ass ran on schedule it seemed.

“Was I right?”

“Shut up,” snapped Connor, throwing back the blankets. “I hate you so much.”

He lay staring at the mattress above him, the gears in his brain still engaging, searching for the fortitude to get out of bed. The lingering smell was too much however. Connor swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He picked up his phone, using its light to find his uniform. Pieces of it had been scattered across the floor, more or less how he had left it two days prior. He performed the obligatory smell test. The shirt was a little fresh — nothing a spray of deodorant couldn’t fix. He fished out some clean socks and drawers from his cupboard.

Avery turned over, pulling the blankets over his head.

“You getting up?”

“No school.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “You need to get your ass a job then.”

“Whatever. I’m going back to sleep. Have fun mopping floors,” replied Avery, yawning.

Connor flipped him off and stomped out of the room. In the hallway he paused, checking to see if his mom’s bedroom door was open. It was closed, indicating she was home after a shift at the hospital. Connor grimaced and changed tack, tip-toeing down the hall to the bathroom. He shat, showered, shaved and dressed himself in his pale green polyester uniform. A liberal spray of deodorant and some product for his hair, he was ready to face the day. Almost. He inspected his face, running a hand over his light brown skin.

“No zits. Not even a bump,” he said, smiling at the thought of his unfortunate brother.

Black hair, slight build, brown eyes, agreeable face. He was nothing to write epic poems over. The other, more exotic boys at school got all the girls — like Henk and Joshua. He was plain old Anglo-Latino. He was a dime a dozen compared with the French or Italian studs roaming the halls. He sighed to himself.

“Can’t polish a turd, Hill. Lipstick on a pig would do better.”

Connor crept back out into the hallway, grabbing some protein bars from the kitchen for breakfast before leaving their apartment. It was a drab pre-war block well past its prime. Half of the windows didn’t open, and every room could have used remodelling a couple of decades ago. It was not the kind of place you brought a date home to, not that Connor was drowning in a proverbial sea of girl. He wouldn’t dream of bringing anyone home, especially if his brother was in. Avery went out of his way to embarrass him at the best of times.

“You have to find a girl first,” he moaned to himself as he walked down the cold concrete stairwell. Connor had stopped taking the elevators as they seemed to have a mind of their own. That and they smelled of piss. Best not to risk getting stuck in one this early in the morning.

It was a chill morning in Boise. Frost stuck to the handrails and patchy grass outside the apartment block. Connor shivered a moment, breathing in the musty, wet smell of the city and breathing out plumes of foggy breath. The cold feeling slowly dissipated as his body adjusted, until it was little more than a nuisance. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t bothered by the cold compared to others, unlike his mother. He just dealt with it a lot easier. Connor placed ear-buds in his ears and selected a playlist on his phone which matched his mood. He settled on a trusty playlist of punk and metal classics. He strode down the stairs with hands in his pockets and into the street, heading downtown to the military hospital where he worked on his days off from school. His mother, Denise, had thrown in a good word for him. The pay was peanuts, as you’d expect for a first job, but it helped pay the bills and kept him busy. Other kids his age weren’t so fortunate to find a job. At least that’s what he told himself as he mopped up blood or puke from the floor.

Traffic was already building at six thirty in the morning. The mass exodus of people for the industrial complexes outside of the city or the decommission fields which fed them. Private buses picked up workers for this company or that mega-farm. Connor kept his head down, avoiding looking at the depressed and bitter adults around him. His lot in life could be like theirs, working jobs which should have been replaced by robots decades earlier. The global economy was so weak at the moment it was cheaper to hire real people again. Bye-bye guaranteed basic wage. Hello indentured slavery. His only hope of escape was wining a scholarship to higher education. Connor hoped his grades would get him into university — one of those fancy ones on the West Coast. Vocational college was more likely, but even then he was up against stiff competition. He had broached the subject of joining the military and receiving an education through them. Denise lost her shit at that.

“The military is not a family, Connor. It’s a machine. They won’t take care of you. They’ll break you down. They’ll remove everything that makes you who you are. They don’t want people. They want weapons — killing machines. I lost your father to them. I won’t lose any of my boys.”

Connor knew the armed service was a touchy subject. He hadn’t realised how much of raw nerve it was for his mom. His father had been a marine in the navy. That’s how he and Denise had met - on the frontline of the European theatre. His dad was a taboo subject. Connor knew little of him and his memories were sparse. His mother had obliterated almost every reminder of him from her life but for Connor and Avery. Connor knew he was regarded as some kind of hero, but the files were still sealed. A buddy from his dad’s unit had visited after the war had ended. Connor couldn’t have been more than three or four years old at the time. He remembered the regard the soldier had for his dad. It was bitter-sweet, knowing that he was a great man, but never knowing for himself.

A car honked its horn. He had almost walked into traffic, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts. Connor waved an apology. The passenger flipped him off. Connor gave her one back. He hit the pedestrian crossing button and waited as dozens of people queued up around him. He thought about Henk and Joshua. If they had gone to the party as they planned, they would probably be on their way home. Connor wished he could ease up and go with the flow sometimes, just like his friends. The drugs and alcohol they insisted on taking at every opportunity put him off though.

The walk-light flashed green, releasing a horde of people onto the road. Connor threaded his way through the incoming traffic of pedestrians, his eyes down to avoid looking anyone in the face. He carried on like this, for several blocks, passing factory workers dressed in bright neon coveralls stamped with logos and business men and woman dressed in real cotton suits, small holographic buttons proudly displaying their rank within the company they worked for. Bright LED billboards tried to sell him American made electronics, cars and consumables in a constant reminder of the fight against the neo communist religion which had started the war. Beggars lined the way huddled in blankets, some wearing the uniform they had served in as they panhandled for change. It upset Connor that so many heroes had lost everything after the war and that the government refused to do anything of value about it.

At the corner of Fifth he paused to look across at his high-school. Teachers and students finishing off the night shift were filing out. He scanned the crowd quickly but couldn’t see anyone he wanted to talk to. He bowed his head once more and turned east, walking the remaining two blocks to Boise General.

Sirens snapped him awake. An ambulance-gyro escorted by two police on air-bikes tore through the sky, their flashing lights painting the still dark street with red and blue neon. All three landed on the Emergency Room docking pad. Several media drones followed, buzzing around the unfolding scene. A mirrored transport-gyro glided overhead. It hovered above the same platform for a moment before turning around and flying away. Connor wondered what was going on to warrant so much attention. Somebody important must have been injured. He quickened his pace.

“I’ve got to see this,” he said aloud.

More police were inbound. Several squad-cars pulled up in the emergency parking bay. Officers in full body tactical gear got out of the sleek armoured cars and filed into the building. Medical staff stood transfixed in shock, watching the faceless police push into the building.

“What’s going on?” shouted Connor over the din of the wailing sirens.

“I don’t know,” replied an E.R nurse, watching the scene unfold with a mix of awe and hostility. “Some corporate official was hurt badly, as far as I’m aware. It doesn’t explain why we have so many damn cops in our ER, though!”

Connor nodded his thanks and walked through the sliding doors. Boise General was built post war, meaning it was functional, performed at what it needed to do but was done on a tight budget. The green vinyl floors always looked filthy, no matter how hard he mopped, due to the cheap coating which easily scuffed and took on embedded dirt. All the walls were preformed panels of the same off white. They were easy to wipe down but hard to repair. The maintenance staff got creative hiding the gouges and dents with strategically placed posters and pot plants.

The police were positioning themselves at the entrances and exits leading to the second floor where the aerial ER unit was. Connor approached the police guarding the triple set of elevators.

“Can I go down to maintenance?” he asked, his voice breaking at the sight of the armed officers.

The closest policeman turned to regard him. Connor’s own scared reflection staring back at him. “Go away, kid. Nobody is using this lift.”

Connor nodded and shuffled away, his knees shaking. He cast a glance over his shoulder before turning down a different corridor which led to the next ward. Panicked and angry staff went about their duties, keeping their distance from the police presence. Connor joined a queue of like-minded staff heading in the same direction to circumvent the police’s cordon. He overheard some of what the others were saying.

“…almost bled dry…”

“…treating him for nerve toxins. I haven’t seen shit like that since the war…”

“…who gets a fucking police escort these days…?”

“…I’d hate to see the other guy…”

Connor heard a commotion behind him. Three gurneys pushed by some harried, blood-soaked paramedics were thundering down the corridor towards him and the clogged elevators, surgeons and nurses in tow.

“Out of the way! Move it!”

Connor and the others made room for the medics and their charges. Connor winced as the bloody, torn bodies wheeled past. Entrails spilled from a writhing man’s stomach. It took every ounce of will to stop from vomiting everywhere. He closed his eyes until the gory convoy had passed. The men had been dressed in private security uniforms. Connor assumed they were the VIP’s security team. There had been a combination of gunshot and blade inflicted wounds. He dreaded to think of who was capable of doing such a thing.

“Keep these lifts clear for emergencies only!” shouted a senior surgeon, her face red with anger. “Fucking cops have blocked the E.R elevators until further notice!”

The gurneys made it to the elevators followed by the curious and bitter staff who wanted to ask questions. Connor split off from the main pack for the stairs. He walked downstairs to locate his manager and clock in. The images of the security guards played through his mind. You saw a lot of disturbing things working in a hospital, even as a part-time cleaner. Car or gyro crashes were often the worst. It never got any easier for him.

It was quieter away from the constant chaos of the E.R ward. He passed other cleaners and maintenance staff whom he knew, giving them casual nods and greetings. He knew most of them by name but he had a feeling they didn’t know his, nor really care. He was just that kid who turned up to help sometimes.

The next level smelled of hospital food and disinfectant. The kitchen occupied over half of the level. Connor had rarely been in there as they had their own cleaning staff. He dodged a trolley on its way to deliver breakfast to one of the wards.

“Elevators may be full,” he called to the assistant.

“What? How am I meant to get up to level three?” replied the woman with a German accent.

Connor shrugged. “Cops have locked the place down. Just saying…”

She ignored him and slapped the call button. Connor left her, walking several doors down the hall to the duty manager’s room, removing the ear buds before his boss could see them. Kim sat behind the desk this morning. He looked up as Connor entered, the headpiece obscuring half of his face.

“Hey, Hill. You on today?”

Connor nodded and waited by the door.

“Get your gear and head up to the maternity ward. Rooms six and eleven need cleaning ASAP. We’ve got more expectant families waiting to get in.”

“Sure thing,” said Connor, turning to leave.

“Wait!”

Connor stopped halfway out. “Yes?”

Kim seemed to go cross eyed as he read the information on his Tac-piece. “Do you know what is going on upstairs? I’m getting a memo that the north elevators are off limits.”

Connor shrugged. “I’ve heard that some V.I.P got injured. There are a bunch of cops in body armour holding everything down.”

Kim nodded. “I’ll try and find out some more.” He turned from Connor to stare at the wall. “I thought we had left this kind of shit in the war. It was common for a while to read about some top level scientist or official being taken out by agents from the East. It spurred on the camps… Even for those of us who had been born here…” Kim shook his head, dismissing his past. “Just do what the police say. Don’t give them an excuse to lock you up.”

“Sure thing, boss,” said Connor, leaving.

The storage room was next to Kim’s office. It was a decent sized room, large enough to house several rows of shelving holding the various chemicals and spare equipment the cleaners and maintenance staff required. They had a set of chairs and table set up near the sinks they used to fill their mop-buckets. Windows at ground level gave it natural light and an opening for the workers to sneak a cigarette during their lunch break. Connor grabbed the nearest trolley and dragged it over to the sink to fill the bucket. He popped the ear buds back in his ears as he waited, whistling along to the tune. As he turned off the faucet, cold metallic hands gripped him by the mouth and across his chest, pinning his arms and tearing the earbuds out.

A flat voice spoke softly, all human emotion scrubbed clean by the cheap vocal speakers of the user’s helmet. “Are you alone?”

Connor’s body shook, his sensibilities failing him. What the fuck was going on?

“Are you alone?” repeated the unknown assailant, gripping his arm painfully.

Connor shook his head as much as he was allowed.

“Where?”

Connor pointed in Kim’s direction, his hand shaking.

His assailant spoke, the language alien or perhaps modulated to be unrecognisable to his ears. A dark, sinuous shape moved towards Kim’s office.

“Which way to the aerial emergency rooms?”

Connor pointed in the same direction.

His head was yanked backwards. The dark, full faced visor of an A.R.C Phantom filled his vision. He had read about the coalition’s stealth unit at school. The skeletal masks were designed to terrify their enemies. He was certainly shitting his pants. The Phantom studied him.

“Show us.”

The Phantom released the grip around his throat. Something sharp pricked him in his lower back. Connor whimpered in pain.

“Quiet, now. Lead the way or die.”

Connor blubbered a reply, snot and tears streaming down his face. He wanted to run, but his legs shook like jelly. The Phantom propped him up as they walked out of the maintenance room and into the hall. They passed Kim’s office. Another Phantom stood in the doorway, partially obscuring Kim’s slumped body and the brain matter blown across the back wall. Connor stifled a cry.

A woman pushed through the double doors to the kitchen, her head bowed down as she pushed a heavy trolley. Before he could warn her, a silenced weapon discharged, blowing her head clean open. Connor closed his eyes as she fell to the ground. A cold calm overcame him. In that moment, he knew he was going to die. His initial fear was replaced by something else — something more calculating and angry.

“Which way?” asked the Phantom holding him.

“Through the door and up the stairs,” replied Connor, his voice broken.

He risked a glance at the other A.R.C agents. The camouflage pattern on their full body suits was disorientating and difficult to focus on. He had counted four. Were there more? They frog-marched him through the swinging door and up the stairs. He heard footsteps and hurried chatter above him.

“Please don’t…” he entreated.

The Phantom holding him shifted to grip his jaw. “Speak again and I will spill your stomach,” he whispered through the vocal unit.

Connor nodded his head and closed his eyes, allowing him to go where his captor desired. He felt the other Phantoms creep forward to take up a vanguard position ahead. They climbed four flights of stairs to the second level.

“Which way?”

Connor paused. They could go the long way and double back around to the E.R. Or he could go left, taking them straight to the north elevators, and hopefully the waiting police.

“Left.”

The A.R.C soldiers pushed through the door in a blur. He heard screams and muffled gunshots as they mowed down those waiting nearby. Connor felt violently sick and started to gag. The Phantom didn’t pause though, heaving him through the door and over the bodies of fallen patients and co-workers. The soldiers cut down anyone in their path, painting the hallway crimson. Connor tripped over the dead or dying as the Phantom dragged him, the cries of terror and pain crushing him.

Tears leaked from his closed eyes. Shame and guilt overcame him. Was he responsible for their deaths? Would they have died if he hadn’t told them where to go? Would Kim have died if he hadn’t been there?

His foggy, fear laced thoughts were cut short as the Phantom paused. Connor felt the man press the barrel of a gun against the nape of his neck. He gasped. This was it.

The A.R.C agents conferred in their strange language, each watching in a different angle down the eerily silent corridor. They were huddled by the last set of doors which led to the next ward and the north elevators. They seemed to be arguing over something. The Phantom holding Connor shook him and gestured with his weapon. The others removed the silencers from their machine-pistols and reloaded, throwing the spent magazines on the floor.

“Go then,” said a Phantom, in English.

His captor nodded and hauled Connor through the door. A dozen paces away stood two police officers stationed by the elevators. The closest officer was dropped with a burst of automatic fire from a machine-pistol. He was thrown backwards by the explosive shells, his tactical armour shredding. The torn body smashed against the stainless steel doors of the lift as the remaining cop dove for cover. Gun fire punctured the hallway, tearing holes in the floor and walls.

Connor screamed, his voice drowned by the percussive crack of firearms and the boom of Mini-Ex. His senses fought to register what was happening. Partially blind and deaf from the gunfire, he was marched forwards.

He didn’t see the police return fire from their position ahead. The sound of their gunfire melded with the ringing in his ears and the bark of the A.R.C’s machine-pistols.

Something kicked his chest, knocking the wind out of him while his arm was wrenched away. He was pushed forwards, propelled by a wave of force. Time seemed to slow as the pain kicked in. He felt a sense of clarity and serenity wash over him, even as the horrific ache in his chest, back and arm increased. Connor opened his eyes in time to watch part of his missing arm bounce off the wall, spraying blood and viscera all over the corridor. One small part of his mind dreaded having to clean it up.

He fell to the floor.