An instinct, more than anything else, told them it was safe to move. But safety was often an illusion. Kill teams were out there, waiting for Warchild and Rotter to make a mistake.

Rotter's wounds needed to be cleaned and dressed for rapid healing to take place. After some debate, the pair found a motel room, one farthest from the office, broke the back window and climbed through.

A shower was prudent after sitting in the hold of the garbage truck.

"Go on, wash up," Warchild said. "I got first watch."

Rotter stripped off his clothes to wash them in the shower. Warchild stayed by the window and peeked out between the curtains. Apart from a few headlights coming and going, there was nothing out there. He turned on the TV for information, piecing together whatever he could. Again, there was nothing beyond the brief announcement that multiple bodies were discovered in the Black Irish, a bar in the F level of the city. It was a gangland hit, the anchor had said. They're covering it up. Which meant their pursuers had a long reach. The list of candidates grew very short.

On TV, the scene of the crime was abuzz with law enforcement. Forensic investigators would have descended to work on the massacre, collecting probative physical evidence -- biological, print, digital, firearm. Yet, how many of the people brought in were legitimate law enforcement and how many were cutouts, passing information back to whoever was after Cerberus?

And they wouldn't have to go far to get eyewitness accounts. The fat barman would have volunteered. Besides, a dozen or more videos taken by passing pedestrians indicated two men had escaped on foot for three blocks, and one was bloodied. The suspects disappeared among the tent cities under the metro platform and did not appear on any trains. A door to door search followed, with no result.

Warchild waited until Rotter finished his shower, then took his while the kid aired his laundry and cleaned his stab wounds which were closing up remarkably fast.

Warchild scrubbed thoroughly, rubbing his flesh raw, getting the filth from the past two days off him, and out of his mind. Lisa probably rolled in the sack with joy now that he was a fugitive and murder suspect. Her claws in him were losing their effect. His wife's infidelity seemed so trivial, compared to the gargantuan problems he was now facing. He soaped his underwear, socks, shirt, and trousers and tossed them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He stepped out of the shower and spread them over a heater set on full blast. Their jackets couldn't be helped, stained with yellow liquid and reeked with a sour odor.

Rotter sat on the bed, tearing a towel into bandage strips while watching the news. He was feeling much better; his wounds, though deep, were pinkish and translucent. "They said it was gang activity, nothing more. No mention of us."

"What did you expect?" Warchild said, wrapping a towel around his waist.

Rotter peeked behind the curtain. "Getting bright outside."

"Better get going soon."

"Where to?"

"Shit if I know," Warchild said, trying to remain calm.

"You gotta be thinking it too, yeah? We're going to be out of scripts soon."

Warchild nodded.

Rotter looked befuddled. "How long before we denature?"

"Three days, maybe?" Warchild said.

"I say we go north, or south, Canada or Mexico."

"How you figure we travel hundreds of miles and cross the border on no money, no passports, no ID? And on no meds?"

"Then it's game over. Might as well give up,'" Rotter said.

Warchild sat down on the other twin bed, and put his head in his hands, rubbing his scalp.

They hadn't noticed the broadcast had changed. It was no longer talking about them.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"In news from the Philadelphia Sector, a strange event occurred when a man burst from the back of a vehicle he was in, jumped into speeding traffic. He then dove headfirst into the Delaware River, authorities believe was a bizarre attempt of suicide. Medical experts doubt anyone could survive the fall. From such heights, water is as hard as concrete. The shocking occurrence was caught by several passerby videos now archived on multiple media sites." A side profile of a man running with hands tied behind his back appeared. "If anyone recognizes this individual, please contact the local authority for assistance. So far, no body had been recovered ten miles downriver. On other news . . ."

Warchild lifted his head, glancing at Rotter.

"Holy shit," Rotter stammered. "That's . . ."

"It's Papa," Warchild said at once. "He's alive."

"Not anymore. He's dead from the fall -- they said so."

"The media doesn't know squat. You forget he could sit down there and wait out the search, bob up every half hour if he needs air. That's what I'd do. Besides, Papa came from Coronado. Those pups trained to do that with their hands and feet tied." Warchild clapped his hands together. "You ask where we're heading -- to Philly, baby. We gotta get to him fast before they do."

"Wait, you sure that's Papa or someone who looks like him?"

"What?" Warchild scowled.

"We're desperate and desperation could make you see things."

"Bonnie would know." Warchild produced the phone he took off the bartender . . . And hesitated. "This is a one time use. We have to assume they're listening. We still want to do this?"

"I'm not going to Philly after some mirage."

Warchild powered on the clear device. Tone clean. Of course, it hadn't been shut down. The line would be tapped. He dialed in the numbers he knew by heart for all Cerberus members.

"Hello?" a familiar voice strummed with anxiety. It was Papa's wife, Bonnie.

"Hey Bonnie, it's Ken -- "

"Something's happened to Papa, Ken!"

"Calm down," Warchild said and nodded to Rotter. The tension in Bonnie's voice confirmed their hunch. "Take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

"The cops found his car at an intersection."

"Car?"

"Our car was left abandoned in the middle of the road. Near home. No driver. No Pete. I called his work. He never showed up for his first day."

"What did the cops say?"

"They won't file a Missing Persons Report until forty-eight hours had passed. They said maybe he'd turn up. They asked if we had a fight this morning. I told 'em no, not at all."

"Did the cops try pinging him?"

"His locater flat-lined." She paused, then gasped. "Does that mean he's dead?" Her voice began to crack over the phone.

"You need to be strong." Warchild glanced at his own arm. Papa's the third Atlas shut down, he thought -- there's no doubt now. "Pete will turn up, I'm sure."

"How do you know?"

"What else did they say?"

"That's all," Bonnie said.

Warchild thought for a second. "Do you have any place to go outside the area?"

"I have my sister in Jersey."

"Bonnie, listen to me -- pack up the kids and go there immediately. I'll try to find out what happened."

"You know something, don't you? Tell me, dammit!"

"You're letting your fears get to you."

She paused, then said. "Does this have anything to do with the video leak?"

He'd arrived at the same question earlier. "Of course not." He cringed.

"You're lying. I can hear it in your voice. Something happened to you too, didn't it?"

Papa didn't marry no dummy, Warchild thought. "I'm not." He hated lying to her but the less she knew, the safer she was.

"God help me, I'm by myself. With three kids and one on the way." She sobbed on the other end.

Warchild didn't give her time to panic further. "Bonnie!"

The sobs subsided.

"Go to your sister," Warchild said. "Stay there until you hear from me. I will find out what's going on."

"I'm freaking out, Ken."

"You hang tough, Bonnie," Warchild barked into the phone. "I swear to you, I'll find Pete."

"Please," Bonnie gasped. "Pete has always trusted you. We need you."

"Right now, your children need their mother. So pull yourself together."

"Okay."

"Pack and leave now. I'll contact you in a few days."

"I'll give you my sister's number."

"No!" Warchild stopped her. "You told me her name once."

After he hung up, Warchild removed the SIM, crushed and trashed the bartender's phone. He glanced at Rotter who'd heard the conversation, a knowing thought passed between them.

"Papa's turn," Rotter said quietly.

Warchild exhaled. "We go find Papa."

A blessing he had Rotter with him, even if the kid was wounded. The lacerations he received from the firefly should close up in a day or two. Their immediate problems were elsewhere. And Rotter beat him to the punch.

"Problem ain't going away, boss." Rotter struggled to put his clothes on. "How do you imagine we get there with no dough?" With no working Atlas, they were without means of survival in a digitized urban environment, except as carrion, and scavengers. Worst of all, neither of them could return home to pick up the remaining meds. Between them, they had enough dosage to last for the week. After that, they'd face a degenerative spiral.

"Beg, borrow and steal." Warchild closed the curtains. "Pick one."

"I'm tired of begging, don't feel like borrowing. I'll take door number three."

"I'm inclined to agree."

Hopeful, Warchild and Rotter snuck out of the motel. Farther up the street, they scoped out the sleepy town. It didn't take long before the men discovered a robo-bus depot where the vehicles scheduled for maintenance were serviced and returned to circulation.