The convoy crawled onto the road led by the squad car, muscling its way into the traffic. The squad car cleared a begrudging path with its flashing lights and siren. The C.D.C agents held on as the ambulance swayed from side to side, Connor was sure their knuckles were white beneath the heavy gloves. They battled through the dense downtown traffic at a crawl, earning a cavalcade of angry horns and insults. A gyro ride would have been much quicker but Connor doubted even the large air-ambulances could fit him, both the C.D.C agents and the soldiers inside.

Both agents stared ahead at the windshield, faces grave, tension plain in their body language. He was sure something was amiss. A military escort for a couple of sick kids? Were they that scared he would infect others? Were the others worse than him? The armoured car, in front of them, seemed to draw the attention of the soldiers and C.D.C agents. Perhaps they were scared of what was inside. The reluctance of Edwards and her men to answer his questions only raised more questions. They were treating him like a simple child, as some adults are wont to do around teenagers, forgetting that they too had spent years learning to manipulate, lie and cheat. Children have been doing it since the dawn of mankind. Do all adults think they hold a monopoly on bullshitting? He could read facial expressions and understand sub-text as well as anybody. Edwards was lying about where they were taking him and her promises of treatment seemed hollow. So what were their intentions?

The answers to his own questions didn’t ally his fears. Soon he was debating whether he should run. The handcuff rested on his wrist, cold and heavy, reminding him that he had several hurdles to cross before he even dared.

He pulled against the cuff, testing. It caught against the base of his thumb. If he could dislocate it, the cuff could slide off, in theory. What else? He listed the problems mentally.

Armed soldiers up front.

A loaded LUV with more soldiers behind.

Whatever was in the armoured car.

The police leading this merry band to the airport.

He was royally fucked on the road to Ohio…

“Hey. What’s in Ohio?” asked Connor, breaking the silence.

“The research centre where we are taking you for treatment,” replied an agent without taking his eyes off the truck ahead of them.

“Aren’t you guys based in Atlanta?”

“Normally, but this is a joint operation with a private research team.”

“You’re using a private company to find a cure?”

“They have the most knowledge about your… affliction,” replied the man, shrugging his shoulders.

Fishy as fuck.

“How many others with my disease are there?”

“It’s not a disease. It’s a genetic abnormality caused…”

“Shut it,” warned the other agent.

The agent looked at his colleague then down at Connor. “I can’t tell you everything kid. This is all new to us. We were shanghaied into this mess along with several other federal branches with little warning. We’re in the dark as much as you, so quit the questions, will you?”

Connor’s mouth gaped open.

It’s not a disease. They’ve been lying this entire time.

The agent shook his head, as much of an apology as he would dare offer and returned to watching the ambulance weave through traffic.

Connor’s life began to flash before his eyes. His trust in the government was pretty low – especially when it came to the issue of medical research. His trust in corporate scientists was lower. Whatever was wrong with him would be used to turn a dollar, guaranteed. Whichever company had been hired had to be getting paid a substantial sum or offered large promises by the government. There was no other way it would work. Connor didn’t know much, but dying on the run sounded better than dying in a lab.

At least it would be quicker.

Connor turned around. They were nearing Route 20 and the over-bridge. A shaky plan formed in his mind. He would doubtlessly be hurt, but hopefully he would survive.

Connor grabbed his left thumb with his right hand and started to pull. He dove inwards, searching for the part of his brain which dealt with pain, damping the signals to a gentle whisper instead of a violent shout. With a little mental help, his thumb slipped out of its socket. He pushed the loose digit over and wriggled his hand through the handcuff, teeth locked in a grimace. The metal caught and dug into his skin, but after several tense seconds it slipped free. With his right hand he gently lowered the cuff to the mattress so as not to make a sound. He glanced over his shoulders. The agents kept their vigil on the rear of the armoured car. He could see the ambulance was turning onto the bridge. He turned back and closed his eyes, feeling the ambulance tilt slightly as it went up the gentle incline.

He breathed in and out, eyes closed.

He flexed his hands, popping the dislocated thumb back in.

A couple more seconds.

Pain is not an issue. You can control pain… he reminded himself.

Okay.

Being run over might be an issue though…

He leapt from the bed before he could talk himself out of it. It was like ripping a band-aide off, except this band-aid came with more dire consequences than a few missing hairs. His hand reached the door handle as the C.D.C agents turned in surprise. The doors flew open with the rushing wind. Connor stood at the edge of the door, speeding pavement below him and the dark, tinted glass of the LUV ominously watching him. His hospital gown whipped in the wind, exposing his bare ass to the cold. Another thing he hadn’t thought of.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” yelled someone behind him.

The ambulance drove erratically as the surprised driver fought to regain his composure after the shock of the doors opening. An agent lunged at Connor but slipped as the ambulance corrected itself. He took one last breath and jumped, aiming to fall as far to the left as he could. It was a pathetic feat of athleticism, Connor barely avoiding hitting the swinging door. The following LUV swerved to avoid running him over.

Connor hit the road with a sickening crunch and rag-dolled head over heels, his jumbled vision catching a mixture of the sky, road, bridge railing, his flailing limbs and hearing the screeching tires of the convoy. Pain flared all over his body from a mix of scrapes, bruises and broken bones. He came to a bloody stop near the gutter. Cars and trucks jammed on their brakes as the convoy came to a complete stop. He heard the crunch of metal and the rain of shattered glass. Horns flared over the screams and shouts of the innocent commuters.

Connor willed himself to move, damping down the pain to the worst affected areas on his body. His legs and ribs felt like they had been mauled by a grizzly bear. Chemicals rushed through his veins in an effort to stem the tide. Adrenalin kicked him into overdrive while endorphins soothed his raw nerves.

“I’ll have some more of that…” grunted Connor through mouthfuls of blood.

He forced his body to comply, giving him more of the invigorating cocktail. It spurred him to act.

Connor reached out and lifted himself to a crawling position. His bones grated unnaturally in his ears as he stumbled forward to the guard rail on hands and knees.

He heard shouting. The soldiers were getting out of the LUV. Bystanders were swarming around their stalled or broken vehicles. He moved as fast as he dared on his crippled limbs, a slow, ponderous scramble over the dirty tarmac.

Would they open fire to stop him? Would the twin-linked cannon rip him to shreds? Was he that dangerous?

He made it to the guard rail. With a groan he lifted himself up and over the barrier, smearing blood along the metal crenulations. He dropped to the sidewalk and rolled, his mind blocking the torture throughout his nervous system. A couple more motions and he was against the last railing.

“Stop where you are!”

Connor didn’t look. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Whole parts of him seemed to be seizing up.

“Halt!”

He could hear their footsteps over the random chaos of the traffic accident. They had to be a whole lot closer. If he faltered they would certainly catch him

And all this bullshit would be for nothing…

Connor heaved with as much might as he could muster.

The fall took his breath away, sucker-punching him in the gut as he accelerated through the air. The stone hard slap of the icy water finished him off.

Reeves and Kippenberger stood at the hand rail. Connor’s limp body floated away, his white hospital gown a stark contrast in the dark green water. The National Guard were helping to free some people from the wreckage. Sirens blared from overhead, as emergency crews tried to land bright red gyros in the confined area.

“Is he dead?” asked Reeves.

Kippenberger took off his sealed bio helmet and sucked down fresh air. “Fucked, if I know.”

“What do we do?”

“We’ve got to get these kids on the plane to Kurniec and his rats. Who knows what they’ll do if they wake up prematurely. I’ll radio Sarah and Ray and tell them what happened. Local P.D can fish him out. Ray can organise a drone to follow him.”

Reeves removed his helmet. “What a shit show… Sarah won’t be happy.”

Kippenberger kicked a stone. It ricocheted off the barrier wall. “How were we to know he’d slip the cuffs and run? Nobody knows what these freaks are capable of.”

“We should have sedated him.”

“As Sarah said, it probably wouldn’t have worked. The bastard survived a hole in the chest and regrew his arm. Plus he should have been in a coma with the amount of anaesthesia pumped into him.”

“Okay. You’re right,” said Reeves, blowing air out of his mouth in a big sigh. “I’ll round these weekend warriors up. You make the call.”

He walked toward the mess of crashed cars, shouting for the soldier’s attention.

Kippenberger spat over the rail. “Fuck…” He pulled a radio hand set from his belt. “Yeah, Dr Edwards? Come in?”

Connor lay on his bed, snug and warm under the heavy blankets his mother had wrapped him in. From the other room he could hear the screams and sirens of his brother playing a V.R game, likely some variant on an urban assault or one of those bootleg independent copies where you could actually play as a criminal. He would get up soon and play some more of his new Dungeon Crawler save. His cleric needed levelling up if he had a shot of competing in the next league. The scent of something unpleasant crept up his nose. Was that rotten fish? What was his mother cooking? He tried to roll over to escape the smell, but the heavy blankets pinned him. He struggled in vain with the bedding, his arms and legs aching from the strain. A prickling feeling of cold overwhelmed the warmth, sapping his strength further. Connor opened his mouth to scream but vile tasting liquid poured in, filling his mouth and lungs. What was happening?

The bridge.

Without warning his brain went in an emergency sequence and fired back up, bringing his body to life. Connor found himself face down in the cold water. His foggy thoughts struggled to comprehend what was happening. Soon panic set in. Thrashing, he righted himself and floated on his back, rasping and coughing in the chill autumn air. A sharp mix of pain and cold blanketed him. His arms and legs struggled to move from a combination of broken bones, deep bruising and frigid muscles.

“Oh fuck,” spluttered Connor, as blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

He had survived jumping out of a truck and falling off a bridge. Somehow he didn’t like his chances of floating to safety. He’d either freeze to death or drown. Perhaps both.

He closed his eyes and drifted. He honed his internal senses, building a report on his condition. He had shattered one ankle and broken the tibia on the opposite leg. Several finger bones had snapped clean in two. A web-work of fractures traced around one knee, several ribs and his wrists. He had a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. Connor knew he had to act fast. He nudged his body’s healing process into gear. It answered sluggishly. Bones and soft tissue began knitting back together. He pushed as hard as he dared. It stripped him of his reserves and attacked healthy but non-vital organs. He could feel the transference of materials from one part of his body to another, the calculated and cruel taxation of his cells.

The last fragment of bone fused into place. Connor let out an immense sigh of relief and agony. He rested a moment to gather his thoughts before starting a slow swim to the shore. The river had dragged him toward Captain Hatcher Riverside Park, named after Boise’s own home town hero of WW3. Quinn’s pond was a popular area for the homeless to congregate during the day. He could only hope the police weren’t waiting for him.

The cold river sapped what little strength remained in his limbs. Connor poured on the adrenaline, pushing himself to get through the water. Near his physical limit he made it to the river’s edge, finding purchase on solid, but slimy rocks just below his neck line. Walking carefully, he staggered up and out of the water.

Men and women shrouded in heavy clothing watched him with interest. It wasn’t everyday a half-naked boy in a hospital gown swam the Boise in autumn.

“You okay, boy?” shouted a man with facial scars and an eye patch.

The wet kid shook his head and slumped down on the rocks. His skin was as pale as ice and his cheeks were gaunt. The kid looked like he should be dead.

“We probably better help the poor thing,” whispered his friend, a veteran of the war missing her right arm.

“Grab your blankets,” said the man with the patch.

“What if he’s crazy?” whispered another man, his breath rattling in his lungs like marbles. “He’s wearing a gown. Could have escaped a ward…”

“We’re all crazies, drug addicts and drunkards, Bill, you fucking hypocrite. Stop complaining and help me,” said his friend.

Connor wasn’t sure what was happening, but he felt the strong arms of strangers picking him up and wrapping him in a smelly blanket. Two men carried him between them, up and into the park.

“Thank you,” he said through chattering teeth.

“You’re welcome. Now let’s get you warmed up, young man.”

The beetle like shape of a police drone hovered above them, watching through an array of lenses. It followed.