SILAS

The cement wall is a blur, scrolling by at high speed. I hold on, fingers wrapped tight around the bike’s handlebars, my knees and thighs squeezing the seat.

Frosty's arm grips my torso like a vice, body pressed against my back. At some point her ponytail must have come undone, because I can feel lengths of her loose hair flailing against my neck.

We swerve sideways, bike tipping, nearly parallel to the floor. Sparks fly as metal grinds against the cement underneath. We're on a collision course with the door blocking the passage. I grit my teeth, bracing for impact. For the end.

Momentum carries us on a relentless path, into the door-

-and straight through the charred opening left by the automech's missile.

The ceiling of the grey, dimly lit passage gives way to an open sky, and sunlight. Enclosed cement walls surrender to a vast, sweeping landscape. It's a stark contrast. I take it in, squinting, eyes adjusting. Still airborne, the bike falling through the air, propelled by the ramp-like angle of the exit hatch. A glorious moment of exhilarated surprise and wonder.

Then we hit the ground.

Or rather, the top of a sandy dune. Tires first.

The impact nearly throws me free of the bike.

We skid, sliding down the far side of the dune. Sand sputters, flying up into and past my face. I’m forced to close my eyes and turn my head.

We’re gonna crash. We’re going to flip sideways and explode. I’m sure of it.

But then our momentum slows, my right shoulder dragging, my right leg stuck between bike and sand. And we grate to a stop.

I open my eyes. Sunlight gleams in bright bars on the slanted dune, making me squint.

I seem to be intact, seeing as I can't detect any injuries. Not only am I alive, but I appear to have come out the other side of this relatively unscathed.

For now.

Even the bike seems to be in okay condition. The engine is still running. The display between the handlebars, indicating fuel, battery, and MPH, is still lit up.

“Not the worst driver, huh?” I say, already expecting a snarky comeback.

It doesn’t come.

Curious, I peer over my shoulder, expecting to see Frosty’s bemused face. Instead, I see only the slope of the dune, and the dark leather of the back part of the seat.

I glance around. There’s the slope to one side of me. To the other, an open, near-endless desert. I can’t see the end. The sand is wavy for awhile, but seems to flatten further out, with warped, whorling heat distortions in the air along the horizon line.

There are buildings out there. Well, not really. They're more like husks. Tall, thin, torn open, and sand-swept. Almost reminds me of broken, abandoned beehives, left to crumble in the dirt.

The heat. I hadn’t noticed it until now. And now I can hardly notice anything else. It’s oppressive. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Besides maybe a sauna, minus the humidity.

But I'm getting distracted. I should call out to the girl. But then, I realize I don't actually know her name. If she even has one.

I lift the bike, just enough to pull my leg out from under it. I let it go, and it thumps against the ground. I head up the slope, one leaping stride at a time. I'm almost at the top.

Something goes flying up past the lip of the peak. A big dark shape, moving at high speed. It's only in the air for a split second, but in the interim, I glimpse the ripple of Frosty's coat, and the thrashing tendrils of her loose hair.

She hits the side of a dune, sending up a spray of sand and dust.

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The dust settles as I race back down, toward her. She's splayed out, partially submerged. She immediately starts trying to move, to get up, but something's clearly wrong. Frosty looks like a wounded animal. Something that can twitch and struggle, but can't operate as normal.

"Blast!" She screams, looking past me.

I pull to a halt, boots sliding and kicking up contrails of dust. I pivot and peer up at the top of the incline.

The giant, orbicular mech is at the peak of the hill, held up by its four long legs. Its body is full of holes, with bits and pieces taken out of it. Charred and black in parts, literally smoking in others. Injured, but still operating. Intent on its objective.

It lowers its body and slides down the dune, using its arms like paddles to push it along. Approaching fast.

I bring one leg back, locking myself in a sort of 'ready' stance. Which is kind of silly, I realize. What am I posing for? Just kill the damn thing. Just do something-

It's already upon me, lashing out with one of its lengthy, powerful, Doc Ock-looking appendages. It's like a giant, curved metal beam sweeping through the air toward me.

I bring up two arms to block, creating a barrier in front of my chest and face. There's barely enough time to do even that.

Metal rings on metal as the robotic limb slams into me, launching me up and off my feet. Shooting and falling through the air. I'm spinning backward, upside down, losing control.

No.

Something comes over me. Something I can't name. Something reflexive. Instinctual.

It's the feeling of knowing how to ride a bike, even if you haven't done it since you were a kid. You might not consciously know the precise mechanics of what to do, but your body does. Your body remembers.

I adjust in the air, pivoting. I land on my feet, sliding, still facing the mech, as it continues to pull through the sand toward me. Two more legs(arms?) swing toward me, one after the other. I duck the first, then make a quick flip sideways over the second, landing on my feet again. A physical maneuver I’d never imagined I could perform.

The mech rolls forward, pounds the ground with its arms to lift itself in a sort of jump, aiming to land on top of me.

A simple dodge won’t work. There’s too much bulk, moving too quickly.

I dive fully out of the way, crashing and rolling. The ground shakes as the mech’s body slams down.

I jump to my feet, strafing as I face the mech, waiting for its next move. I need to draw it out, keep it away from Frosty. And I need to destroy it.

I have a few weapons at my disposal.

There are my cyborg limbs, as I’d learned a bit ago, breaking in the door to the armory.

There’s the holstered pistol, which I’d forgotten about until just now. Given how ineffective that big rifle was against this thing, I have a hard time imagining this gun will fare much better.

Then there’s my backpack. You know. The one with all the explosives in it.

I sling the pack forward off my back and reach in through the partially zipped-open gap.

A plan takes shape in my mind. A brash and frankly terrifying plan. One that I feel drawn to execute, regardless. I know I can do it, and I know I should do it. The same way I knew I could dodge those arm attacks.

The trick is to just not think about it.

I pull out one of the shiny, explosive orbs. I find a little blue button, which I press down on with my thumb until there’s a click, and a light blinks inside it. Somehow, I knew to do that. And somehow, I know this activates a fifteen second timer before the thing detonates.

I toss it back into the pack, together with the ammo and the rest of the grenades. I zip the bag shut in one snappy motion and sling it over my shoulder.

Then I run toward the mech.

The mech launches a new barrage of attacks with its arms, one after the other. I dodge, swerve, slide. Jump.

I land on top of the mech, one foot hooked inside one of the hollowed out nooks in the hull, one of the places where the minibikes of death came from.

Should I be counting down the seconds, keeping track of what time I have left? All I know is I need to stay focused, or it won't matter.

One of two things is about to happen. Either this thing is going to start playing whack-a-mole with its arms, or-

It's trying to roll over, to crush me under it. Makes sense.

The giant hamster ball rotates under me. I scramble along the surface, staying atop it, using the jagged, broken-out parts as handholds.

I can't wait for the perfect moment. I gotta do this now.

While maneuvering along the edge of the ball, I jam the backpack inside one of the cubbies in the hull, with the shoulder strap looped over a protruding section. I pull the shoulder strap tight, fastening it.

I leap off the big ball. It must be able to detect my movements through the shifting of my weight on its body, because it lashes out with its arms, trying to swat me out of the air. I tuck in my limbs, making myself small as I hurl downward. I hit the ground running, making a beeline for Frosty, making big, powerful strides on mechanical legs. Wind in my hair. Beads of sweat suddenly feeling cool on my forehead.

Any second now, one of the legs is going to hit me. I'm going to be knocked off my feet. It's going to grab me, and pin me. And it's going to explode. And I'm going to melt slowly, crushed by a giant molten ball. I'm sure of it.

I'm running at full speed, faster than I ever have in my life by far, but time seems to slow, and I get the sense that maybe this is like in my dreams, when I'm fleeing something as fast as I can, legs pumping, but my body doesn't seem to move, as if progress itself is illusory.

My heart—or what feels like my heart—jackhammers in my chest, like the threaded pound of a war drum.

I reach Frosty. She doesn't reach up to take my hand. Because she can't. She's lying at a slant, her neck crooked at a weird angle. Her eyes follow me, but she doesn't speak. Probably because it hurts to.

I lift her up and take her with me, heaving her over my shoulder as I rush toward the top of the hill.

Just as I peak the hill, there's a sound like thunder behind me, and a fireball of heat against my back.