As bullets tore the apartment to smithereens and his life might have been ended at any moment by one such unlucky shot, Thomas was at peace. His companions had climbed out and gone down the fire escape and now there only existed the door and the unseen enemies behind it. He would hold them back as long as he could. His body felt light, like he had youthened a few decades, everything so sharp he could see the motes of dust wafting in the air. It reminded him of his racing days; he could still remember many of his races from start to finish down to the minutest detail, yet he could not remember what he had done just last week, as his life had become a routine-driven rut that impressed a blur of an image at best. Like in those high-octane competitions of breakneck speed and audacious daredevilry, so were his senses now sharpened enough to carve a clear mark into his consciousness, his blood and passion so inflamed as to brand themselves permanently to his recollection, as opposed to the turbid smears left by the lukewarm swill of life the people of their city waded through, most without even dreaming of purer springs or stormy seas.

One such toad of pestilential swamps croaked as the flat’s tenant heavily drew breath into lungs rapidly filling with blood. He had been shot by the people he had assumed as his saviors, the reality he had denied for so long now showing its might as pain more genuine that anything that one could find even in the most advanced of simulations.

“It’s not fair,” he sputtered, before his multiple chins fell against his chest as he passed out.

Thomas welcomed his quietude as his spewing had made listening to movements outside difficult. One could have heard a pin drop, and he didn’t dare to check his remaining ammunition, thinking it would allow his opponents to home in on his location. Faint rustling sounds came from the hallway. He had used up much of his little ammunition, so he decided to make every shot count and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.

An arm swiftly jabbed from the doorway, flinging something in the room. The object bounced, ringing metallically and rolled across the floor, coming to rest between him and the dying man. Seeing the cylinder, he attempted to charge out of the window but was too late. The next thing he knew he was blind; his eardrums had been punched in and he could not seem to get up from the floor. Someone grabbed the gun from his hand and he punched in their direction, not hitting anything. Something hard hit his head and he had time to feel the brunt of the pain before a second blow brought full blackout.

The van bounced, shaking him awake. He lay on his face on the floor, his arms tied behind his back. He looked around, moving as little as he could. Two men sat next to him, one to each side. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to him, apparently too busy studying whatever they were being fed by their smartglasses. The driver’s seat was empty, the van piloted by the onboard computer to the guidance of its cybernated master. The men didn’t act like the people he had seen trapped within their cars, confirming his suspicions; they must have been of the chosen few, destined to inherit the Earth.

He tested his binds without any luck and, thinking it a good sign they had taken him captive instead of killing him, decided to wait and see where they were headed. His captors were wearing bulletproof vest on top of typical office clothes, the armpits of their dress shirts stained with sweat. They didn’t strike him as special ops or anything even comparable to that; their vests and other gear hung loosely and awkwardly on them, like they had put them on for the first time and in a hurry. The man to his left was fingering the Desert Eagle he had taken from Thomas.

The van came to a stop and the men got up.

“Pick him up,” the portly man to his right said.

“Who, me?” the bearded man to his left answered nasally. “You pick him up.”

“I’ve got my hand full with this gun,” the other man said, lifting his assault rifle higher. “Just give him a few kicks.”

“I know you’re awake, Thomas,” an incorporeal voice intoned via the speakers. “Do not make this harder than it needs to be.”

The men backed up a few steps as he got his feet under him. He had to stand stooped as not to hit his head on the ceiling. The doors behind him unlocked and opened, the automated systems doing their job smoothly and silently. He stepped out and cracked his stiff neck, his supposed guards following after him as opposed to driving him forward.

Skyscrapers of steel and glass towered over him on every side, the wide multilane street wide and empty like a Midwestern prairie, except instead of buffaloes it was inhabited by mechanical beasts of prey and burden. They were at what used to be the business and financial district of the town, were the buildings had reached for the sun like the people inside had reached for their ambitions. That time had passed, of course, and the trash and abandoned shopping carts the district had come to be known for in its later days still abounded, with more recent corpses added to the debris. The plague of rats inhabiting the area had welcomed this addition with relish.

His guards indicated for them to step inside the building they had parked next to, and he complied. A name had stood in grand, golden letters above the door, but only a few letters remained. The windows on the ground floor had enough graffiti on them as to be opaque. He was welcomed by a stale, fetid stench as stepped inside the lobby, filled with seedy mattresses and sleeping bags imbued with the reek of unwashed bodies. Apart from a few cadavers with bullet holes in their backs the squatters were nowhere to be seen. They walked briskly past the camp, staying away from the beddings as not to catch lice, or worse, and headed into the elevator lobby. Directed by the gunmen, he called the private elevator whose door was flanked on both sides by the vandalized remains of marble statues. The elevator doors opened, letting out air that smelled of piss. They stepped in and the thinner henchman pressed the button for the top floor.

The highest level of the building was in no way better shape than the bottom, but here all the junk had been haphazardly piled to the sides and broken windows allowed fresh air inside, although the rain that had poured in had caused the carpet to grow moldy in spots. More gunmen milled around. They approached a glass-paned conference room with drawn blinds, and the man guarding the door let them through. Inside, around a long wooden table, sat a group of old, fat men with droopy eyelids, their faces wrinkled in permanent frowns. On the table sat speakers and a holographic projector connected to a computer, standard fare for any video conference. Thomas was pushed to a leather chair, and he calmly waited for the assembled men to speak, putting on an air of indifference despite the captivity and overwhelming odds he faced.

He didn’t have to wait for long. The furrows in the men’s faces deepened as they stared at him.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” one of them snapped, an old man with spectacles and thin white hair that revealed a scalp covered in liver spots.

“Just keeping my mouth shut not to breath in the fumes in this place.”

The old man grew livid. “This used to be a glorious building filled with remarkable people! Politicians used to beg my secretaries for a chance to have a meeting with me. It used to be my family’s name written in bold letters on the side of the building!”

His rant was cut short by a hacking cough. After the attack had abated, he waveringly added: “Just look what they’ve done with the place.” He quieted down, staring at the table but only seeing the past.

“We’ll take it back,” said a dark-haired man with sad eyes. “It’ll be like it used to, Arthur. The name of Herrington shall yet grace the façade of plenty of landmarks.” The rest nodded their support.

The spectacled man smiled wanly. “I just hope you get your rockets functional again, John. I think our best bet is to leave this godforsaken planet behind and trust the rest to a carefully selected group of our juniors.”

“Speaking of juniors, I think we got up with the wrong foot with our esteemed guest here,” the sad-eyed man said and turned to Thomas. “My name is John Lowell. Pardon our manners, but it has been quite a stressful day for people as old as we are.”

“I watched an old friend of mine die today,” Thomas said, meeting his eye. “It must have been quite stressful to kill him.”

Lowell flinched, the rest lowering their eyes. They hardly seemed like the pack of heartless killers he had anticipated.

Lowell put his words carefully: “Routh’s methods are …uncompromising, shall we say, but a revolution is seldom a pretty affair. Besides, drastic measures were needed to put things back in order.”

“By order, you mean you first and everyone else last.”

The men reacted to his comment in various ways, some shook their heads while others rolled their eyes, others grimaced and some chuckled. Lowell waited for the scoffs to die down.

“You think we aspire to the despots’ seat? Nothing could be further from the truth. We don’t seek to rule the people around us but to free ourselves from under their weight.”

“With the exception of Routh, who has let his exceedingly high Worth Score get in his head,” Arthur Herrington interjected.

A man with long, limply hanging hair hushed him: “When talking of him, remember that his system is ever listening.”

“Bah! I have known him since he was but a child, hiding behind his father’s legs in the Christmas Gala. If he is willing to do away with ‘Uncle Arty’ over a little snub, then he really is too far gone already.”

“Do you know why you are here?” Lowell asked Thomas.

Thomas stayed silent.

“Yes, it must be quite confusing,” Lowell went on. He beckoned to the guards. “Please untie him.”

The armed men shared an uncertain glance but did as they were told and then quickly stepped back out of his reach. Lowell waited as Thomas rolled his sore shoulders around a few times before continuing.

“Routh wishes for you to join our ranks.”

“Then he really is insane,” Thomas said evenly.

“But you’re the perfect fit for our merry little band, you just don’t know it yet,” Herrington butted in again. “At least that’s what The Intelligence has surmised.”

“I think you’ve been fed false, or at least one-sided information,” said Lowell. “Allow us to explain our point of view.”

Herrington took his silence as a sign of approval. “To understand that you’ll first need to know who we are. As you have heard, I am Arthur Herrington III, the former chairman of the Herrington Bank.” He waved to Lowell that he should continue.

“I was the head of NASA, back when we still had NASA,” he said, the sad look in his eyes abating for a second.

The limp-haired man perked up. “Michael Cellin. Artist. At least I used to be.”

A small man who had sat silently with his hands clasped spoke next, his voice carrying surprising well, taking his frame into account: “Frederick Housen. The Lord saw it fit to make me His bishop and to take that away to better serve Him.”

The last one to talk was the tallest of the bunch, who still had all of his dark hair and immaculate teeth: “Wyatt Jones, one of the last senators.”

“And you,” Herrington said, the circle having completed the introductions, “are Thomas Walker, a former race-car driver. A veritable museum of past times’ noteworthy people we have here! Let me ask you Thomas, why did you quit?”

He could not have asked a worse question to start with. “There were many reasons.”

“Of course, of course,” Herrington said. “That’s what I was told when I asked why my bank was being shut down. But as I see it, there really is just one big reason behind it all.” His lips curled in distaste.

“The power to the people movement.” He spat the words with such acid one would have expected the table in front of him to corrode.

“I fought that direct democracy bill tooth and nail,” senator Jones told them, “but the constant riots and media coercion pressured too many of my colleagues to give in. Put me and the other representatives out of a job in one fell swoop, but that was not my reason for opposing it.”

“The taxes, regulations and laws that soon followed bankrupted most of the institutions in this part of town,” Herrington continued. “When they saw money accumulating to a single person, company or other instance, they soon got their hands on it through hastily put-together laws.”

“That was the end of my career in aerospace engineering,” Lowell said sorrowfully. “Wasn’t right to waste billions on launching junk to space when there still were poor people who could use that money to feed and clothe themselves, that’s what they said.”

“And one day,” Herrington said, growing more indignant as he gathered steam, “they decided it was not right for others to have a skyscraper with their name on it while others had to make do with run-down efficiency apartments or sleep in cardboard boxes on the street. Our family built this building! But no, they voted that such institutions could not expel people who wished to live there. And the homeless came in droves, leaving their carts outside, while others moved in simply to save in rent. Well, we did have the room, as most of the employees had already left or gotten sacked as a cost-reducing measure.”

Thomas listened to their collective explanation. He did have a faint recollection of the events they were describing, but as his life at that point in time had been quite tumultuous, he had not much paid attention to the news.

“And through it all,” Herrington frothed, “the media portrayed us as the malefactors, withholding resources we had wrongfully taken from the people. Well, it doesn’t pay to contradict the people whose money you depend on, and the rag that made the mob feel most justified in its envious ire raked in the most money, at least in the short term. The financial and business life of this country was in ruins.”

“But Ampere still has loads of money and influence,” Thomas put forth.

“Yes, more than any company before it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t diseased to the core.”

“With the companies struggling and going under in every sector,” Lowell expounded, “people soon faced the logical consequence of their actions; there were less and less products and services to be had. As a result, power outages, empty shelves and long lines became the norm.” This was something even Thomas remembered.

“One would figure that would be enough for everyone to realize the error of their ways and revert back to the tried-and-true method of government,” Jones, the senator, asserted and sighed. “Shows what I know.”

Lowell resumed his explanation: “No business could have prospered, or even survived, in those conditions, yet people still wanted what they had. At that point, only the largest companies with the deepest coffers still persisted, mostly just waiting to bleed out. Everyone now had guaranteed income, but less and less to buy with it. People tried to force companies to produce, for example by decreeing in law a person’s right to clothes, to a car, a smartphone, virtual reality gear etc. etc. and then charging those companies with human rights violations, but that naturally did nothing to alleviate the issue.”

“And then came the national subsidies,” Herrington recited, not conceding to stay quiet for long. “Tax money was funneled to the companies still standing to keep them running, creating gargantuan monopolies to feed the people’s hunger of modern comforts. You think Ampere is some powerful conglomerate, making everyone else dance to its tune while planning its next dastardly move? It is like the rest of these consortiums; a sad, unnatural affair forced to put out its product for a price that anyone can afford, then taxed out of any earnings it comes across and kept on life support with the subsidy money. The corporate equivalent of a Haitian zombie, a pitiful creature stuck between life and death, forced to do the witch doctor’s bidding, except instead of some voodoo priest it’s the masses who are only a step above a zombie pulling the strings. Really, I would understand if Routh went a little bit insane.”

The artist called Cellin gave him another look, then shook his head.

“The greatest minds of the generation spent their time thinking how to allow people to avoid the slightest strain, as that is the only business left. You have the automated car for taking you places, food is brought directly to your living room, you don’t even have to see in the mirror what years of sedentary living have done for you, as long as you keep your augmented reality glasses on. Did you know they’ve almost managed to pass a law that would prohibit you from looking at someone without eyegear that puts their desired visage on, so they can always appear as they wish? The country is being run by people who hate reality, who have denied the real world and wish to make it illegal, just to feel better about themselves.”

“God made man in His own image,” the bishop spoke. “Pity to see people neglect their bodies, misled by the allure of simulation. Not to speak of their minds and hearts—‘the meek shall inherit the Earth’—but while these people are certainly not bold, they are so small in virtue and abundant in vice that I doubt God will reward them. They willingly put on blinds and stumble onwards without the Lord’s guidance, thinking the mirage in front of their eyes is the closest to Heaven they can get. Hopefully it is not too late to get these lost souls back to the fold. In this time of sickness, loneliness and self-absorption people need God more than ever.”

“I wonder what God thinks about your solution to the problem,” Thomas said.

“I pray for the souls of the lambs out there,” the bishop said, his hands still clasped. “As I do ours.”

“So, what do you say?” Herrington asked. “Has your opinion changed at all?”

“You could say that.”

“And?” The anticipation made the men lean slightly forward in their seats.

“At first, I had you pegged for opportunists who had grasped a chance for more money and power.

“But now?”

“Your Intelligence has it right: we have a lot in common.”

The magnate smiled triumphantly. “Glad to hear it.”

He pressed on: “With one important distinction: you people are just as delusional as the masses you seek to dethrone.”

The smile faded from his lips.

“You think you can just reverse everything to the way it is in your memories gilded by time, but that can never happen. It won’t be the same. And like the people who have disregarded this outside reality in favor of the online one, so have you rejected it in favor of the one in your dreams.”

The men sneered in indignation, the artist most of all. “It is only natural to prefer a world of beauty to one of ugliness,” he retorted. “Before, I could find no inspiration anywhere, and when I forced myself to create my art, and when I poured my feelings to the canvas the only thing I could manage was dark smudges devoid of meaning. The works of the old masters that used to take your breath away now went unseen, panned by critics who much preferred anything meant to ‘deconstruct’ art. I think it tells everything about the mindset of these people that they considered some rubbish dump trash to be on the same level as a historic piece of art, something someone poured all their passion, time and talent towards. These people are so far gone the very concept of aspiring for something better, for something beautiful is foreign to them. But when I learned of Routh’s vision I was filled with such ardor and energy just one canvas was not enough to contain its expression! Haven’t shown those pieces to a single living soul, as this world is unworthy of them. But they shall constitute the first art exhibition of the world of tomorrow.”

“I hadn’t taken you for some demoralized quitter,” the senator said, not making eye contact like he was just talking to himself. “You’ve fought for your life quite earnestly for someone who has given up.”

“Fighting comes to me naturally. That’s the only thing I can do, stay true to myself, no matter the outside circumstances. But this world is not for me, when my time comes I will gladly breathe my last breath, but until then I will just keep moving and do what I think is right, even though it most often makes me the wrong man at the wrong place.”

“Tall words for someone who has spent the last few years drowning his sorrows with booze,” a new voice joining the conversation said. No video feed came from the projectors, but the speakers carried the haughtiness of the voice so clearly one could perfectly imagine the conceited smirk and disdainful leer the on the speaker’s face.

“Routh! How nice of you to finally join us,” Herrington said. “At least in voice,” he added.

“Don’t worry, I can see you all quite clearly,” the incorporeal voice said. “Really, with Amun-Ra I can see everything more absolutely than ever before. Take Mr. Walker here, for example. He is a man who has given us less information to study than any of you, yet the Intelligence can still paint a picture of him with what it has. Care to hear it?”

He didn’t answer. The lack of visual representation gave him nothing to focus his glowering on, so he drilled a hole into the wall behind the other end of the table with his glare. The elder men shrunk away from the smoldering look.

“Knowing about your drinking habits is easy, the only thing we need is your credit card data, the security camera feed from your local store is just a bonus,” he explained with casual, glib insolence.

“From traffic camera feed we know you don’t really get out much. The whole legal debacle about what happened to your child is documented in court archives as well as insurance company databases….what a tear-jerker! And then there’s the old news articles and footage of your last race. To Amun-Ra, it is no surprise you turned out the way you did, it is doubtful thing could have gone any other way. You have these grand ideas about yourself, want to hear what you really are and what you have in store? That is, after all, what Amun-Ra does best.”

“By sticking your nose into my business,” Thomas growled, “you have also set yourself on a path that you will be unable to escape. A path that ends with me.”

“You,” he articulated, pressing words clearly as a news anchor, “are a fighter that has lost every fight that counted, in a world without any fight left in it, someone who has to douse his fire with liquor lest it burns him from within. You thirst for that conflict. How could you ever be content alongside people for whom that kind of a fight for something is a curse, and who say everything they wish should be theirs by a right they have written on paper? You have more in common with me than you care to admit.”

“But not as much as you hoped, if you really thought I would join in on your delusion.”

“Yes, Amun-Ra did give the chances of that happening quite low, but still worth the try. By analyzing your driving, we could have made our cars more deadly pursuers than ever before. No matter. Hey, Lowell?”

The engineer perked up. “Yes?”

“How long would you say the average airliner can stay in the air?”

“Depends on the plane,” he said, puzzled. “Why?”

“Oh, it was kind of a trick question. I already know the answer, as the planes have been going down in an increasing rate over the last few hours.”

“What?” The men seemed genuinely shocked and appalled. “Has there been something wrong with the piloting software?”

“No, no, it has been working exactly as I instructed it to.”

The men all yelled over each other, Herrington’s dismayed voice carrying over all the others: “We agreed there would be no unnecessary loss of life. What have you done?”

“Allow me to show you,” their unseen host said, smug condescension dripping from every word. The projector came alive, showing a view from the inside of a car, the woman behind the wheel crying helplessly as people broke against the beaten metal face of the incompliant vehicle. The view changed from car to car, the events remaining much of the same.

The men had gone white at the face, their mouths hanging open.

“What is this? Herrington uttered, his voice a hoarse whisper before collecting himself and continuing frantically: “We were supposed to just scare the populace enough to have martial law declared and use that to drive forward the needed changes.” He turned to Thomas, his eyes wide and white. “You have to believe me, we estimated only a minimum amount of people would lose their lives. We did not know!”

“You did not want to know,” their disembodied tormentor declared. “You elected to turn your eyes away, sit there and only come out when your dream has become a reality. When I have made it happen! The thing is I only needed your resources, which you handed over gladly. I have no more use of you, and Amun-Ra tells me you are going to be more trouble than you’re worth in the long run, so it is time for me to cut ties. Ta ta!”

The collected cream of society’s feeble protests were interrupted by one last sneering communication: “Oh, and about those airplanes? You will soon find out exactly when a certain one ends its journey.” The sound of a signal breaking was the only farewells they got.

Stunned silence reigned for a moment. Then the assembled men began arguing their innocence all at once, washing their hands of the whole ordeal. Thomas didn’t pay them much attention and got up from his chair as even his guards seemed to have forgotten to watch him. To be honest, even Thomas himself wasn’t quite sure if he was still detained, so badly out of their depth were these people who had captured him, and it was closer to the truth to say that they were all captives of Routh’s scheme. He walked to the window, as Routh’s last remark had left a creeping suspicion which he was now trying to confirm. He looked out of the corner office’s many windows, scanning the skies. Then he briskly walked to the man who held his gun and easily took it back as he was distracted. The man stared at him in alarm, frozen and unsure what to do, but Thomas had already walked off.

“Listen up!” he yelled and the tumult died down. “We have less than a minute to clear the building.” He pointed at the sky on the other side of the window. “Don’t ask me why, just use your own damn eyes. Good luck.” Then he broke into a run, the bewildered gunmen letting him pass without any trouble.

The guards quickly approached the window and after a moment’s search began pointing wildly at something, covering their mouths that hung open in shock.

“What is it this time?” Herrington asked, feeling like a man who knew the guillotine’s blade hung above his neck, but who still hoped it was all a big misunderstanding that would sort itself out before the irreversible.

“A plane, sir,” the portly man who had accompanied Thomas up said. The rest of the armed people rushed out of the room as he stammered his report. “Coming in low above the city. Way too low. Coming for us.” Then he too ran out, like what he had seen only now hit him.

The elder men jumped up and shuffled to the door, all but one.

“Aren’t you coming?” Lowell asked, turning back to Herrington who still sat at the table.

He sat, staring at the table. “No, no. They must be mistaken. It is all a big mistake.”

Lowell opened his mouth to argue, but one peek at the fast-approaching plane made him close his mouth and leave. The door closed, leaving the old tycoon in his solitude.

Thomas had descended the stairs for five stories at full speed when the building shook violently so he lost his balance and fell over several steps to a landing, the impact knocking the wind out of him. A blast of dust and smoke shot up the stairwell. He spat out dirt and got up, grabbing the railing. Was it just the hard fall making his legs wobbly or did the entire building sway perceptibly?

His trail down ended where fallen roof had blocked the stairs. He got out of the stairwell, smoke filling his vision as he opened the door out into a level with cubicles and smaller offices. Fire alarms blared and water poured from sprinklers, and he could not see far enough into the smoke to judge which way he should go.

“Wait!” a feminine yell came. “Take me with you.” He turned to the voice, finding it belonged to a brown-haired Asian woman. From her neat clothing and grooming he deduced she must have been with Routh’s Chosen.

“I can show you the way to another staircase,” she added.

Thomas turned back to the door. Smoke poured in from somewhere at an increasing rate.

“The lower levels must be ablaze. No time for detours.”

“Take point,” he said. “We need to go.”

They covered their mouths with their shirtsleeves the best they could and headed out. Heat radiated from the floor. The deeper they ventured, the hotter and smokier it became and the closer did he have to stay to her not to lose sight. As such, when she came to an abrupt stop, he almost collided with her. He was about to urge her on when he saw what had stopped her: the floor had collapsed, creating a chasm dividing the hallway, black smoke billowing and embers wafting up.

She turned to him, helpless look in her brown almond eyes. “This is the only way,” she stammered. He tried the first door to his left, which was unlocked, and entered a small corner office. They were both coughing now. He grabbed the sturdiest chair he could find and smashed it at the window. It took a few swings with his full weight behind them, but finally the window broke, cooling their faces with a breeze.

“What now?” she asked, pacing around the room. “We can’t just stay here.”

The building groaned and shivered, a whiteboard stand at the corner of the room falling over.

There was only one way they could try with the time they had. He stepped on the windowsill, looking out of the window he had broken. The ledge outside was wide enough to accommodate his feet.

“You are not really going to—“, she started but the wind carried the rest of her protests from his ears as he stepped all the way out. With his stomach close to the window and leaning his hands against it for support, he began shimmying across the ledge. Through the window he could see the woman’s mouth still going. He gestured with his right hand for her to follow, then concentrated on his balance, advancing when he saw her making her way out of the room as well.

The next room was on fire, the window cracking in the heat that made him pull away from the glass for the inch he could afford.

“Quickly,” he yelled to the woman who followed hesitantly in his footsteps. “You don’t want to be standing there when that pane shatters.”

She grimaced and hastened her pace slightly. She accidentally placed her hand on a metal transom and the heat made her pull reflexively away, and she spun her arms madly around, trying to regain her balance. Finding her footing, she collected herself for a few seconds, whispering something with her eyes closed. Opening her eyes, she kept going facing the inferno only held in checks by a glass through which cracks were quickly forming, like gashes on a whipped back.

She had almost made it when the window burst, showering her with blazing shards of glass. The eruption pushed her aside and she tilted over the edge, shrieking.

He reached out, grabbing the sill of the broken window , burning his hand in the process and caught her by the arm, yanking her back up with a quick motion and securing her between his arm and the wall. She hyperventilated, her panicked motions almost unbalancing them both.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling out his gun with his other hand. “We are getting out of here.”

He covered his eyes and shot through the next window, shattering the glass. He stepped into the room, then lifted her through and pulled her after him. No time for more pep talk. He marched on, dragging her after him.

They entered another stairwell and headed down. Sooty rock and smoldering debris rained down the center shaft. He risked a peek upwards, but it was like the building ended prematurely in an impenetrable cover of smoke.

The fitted carpet at the bottom of the stairs had caught fire, but a few leaps were enough to get them away from perilous ground. But not out of danger, as they soon found out. Shots were fired ahead and they slowed down, approaching every corner cautiously and checking the way ahead before pressing on. They had reached the lobby with the abandoned beddings but escape now seemed further away than ever. The entrance was teeming with guards who were firing out of the broken windows at the cars who scurried around the front of the building, like sharks around a diving cage. Their bullets did little to drive them back.

The building shook violently, swinging ceiling lamps and felling wall ornaments. A rumbling came from an elevator shaft, a rumbling which increased by the second, the flashing floor indicators warning of the incoming missile moments before a resounding crash reverberated through the level, the freefalling elevator smashing the sliding steel doors open and showering dust, embers and bloodied remains around.

“Screw this!” one of the gunmen yelled and charged out of the building before his companions had chance to stop him. The vehicles came for him and he managed to jump to the hood of the first one, jumping across the roofs of the tightly packed cars. Seeing this, the next car he lunged for reversed, causing him to lose his balance and fall backwards to the ground, which was the last they saw of him.

“Any other way out of here?” Thomas asked the woman.

“No, the cars barricaded them when we came in, to stop anyone from getting in unless we wanted them to.” She wiped sweat from her forehead, leaving a patch of white skin where the soot rubbed off. “Guess it’s just as effective in keeping us in.”

He crouched, watching as some of the militia tried to scare off their untiring enemies outside, while others had cast away their weapons and ran around in terror, looking for a way out. The stairwell and elevator shafts were turning into pillars of flame that exuded burning heat. Soon the entire building would be engulfed by the inferno. Every rumble and quake of the building made them brace for innumerable tons of steel and concrete to fall upon their heads.

And he just watched, the only movement coming from his evaluating eyes.

“Shouldn’t we run?”, she asked, every second feeling like an eternity to her.

“If you run like a panicked animal, you think like a panicked animal,” he said.

The chaos and danger that clouded the eyes of others until they were identical with those of stampeding cows cleared his vision and faculties, empowered the beating of his heart and opened his lungs to full capacity, but he did not like what he saw, no matter how invulnerable he felt.

“Alright, here is the plan,” he said, getting up. “We are going to grab some guns and shoot at the windshields of the vehicles before going out. When they come for us, we will jump in through the broken windows. Also destroy the in-cabin cameras to blind them to our movements. We will bide our time inside the vehicles, and when we see a chance, we will take it. If the building collapses, it should kick up enough dust to cover our exit. Let’s make for the buildings on the other side of the street, we should be able to find a back door and move building to building, possibly make camp for a while.”

She stared at him and blinked. Then she blinked again. “There is no way that is going to work. We are going to die.”

“It’s possible. Likely, even.” He picked up an assault rifle someone had discarded and handed it to her. “But there is a chance, which is more what we would have if we stayed here and waited for the fire to spread.” He joined the line of men shouldering the wall by the windows opening to the street and she followed unenthusiastically in suit. The armed men glanced at them, but any previous animosity seemed forgotten. He didn’t see any of the people from the upper floors and assumed fire or building damage must have cut of their exit.

“This can’t be happening”, a young brown-haired man cried, talking to no one while staring intently at something on his lenses. He was sitting on the floor, knees drawn against his chest. “I am Chosen. I am worthy. Amun-Ra, show me where I went wrong and I will make amends.”

Thomas looked his female companion in the eye and nodded. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded back. He turned, aiming his Eagle through a break in the window, taking aim at the windshield of the nearest car. Then he prayed silently in his mind that Naomi and the others would be fine when he was gone. He was about to pull the trigger when commotion drew his attention away: a large truck with a plow in front came barreling into the swarm, the autonomous vehicles thrown aside like broken toys. The truck parked in front of the exit, creating a barrier between them and the homicidal drones outside. Close up he noticed the truck had been reinforced with steel structures that provided protection for the tires and additional strength to the point of the plow.

A sturdy metal door at the back opened and a bearded man peeked out, hanging outside the compartment to see them.

“Get in!” he yelled. “We don’t have much time!”

“That,” Thomas said, “is a chance if I’ve ever seen one.” He pulled the woman with him, helping her up the ladder to the entrance of the carriage. Seeing their prey get away, the vehicles rammed against the side of the juggernaut, but could not get to them. Thomas pulled himself up and the remnants of the Chosen stationed there followed.

When all had filed in, the mammoth of a truck began fighting its way through the bloodthirsty horde tearing at its sides. It made for a rough, jerky ride with earsplitting clangor. When that started to die down, indicating their pursuers had pulled back, he turned to the woman he had managed to save from the building.

“I’ve got no more excused for postponing introductions any longer. I am Thomas, although I guess you already know that and a lot more of me.”

“Thank you, Thomas, for saving my life,” she said. “My name is Amber Liu.”