Chapter 20 “If thine eye offends thee.”

Burton spent the day on his final project, a prosthetic arm. Based on a design for wounded soldiers, Burton had modified an Assaultron arm. A steel brace with magnetic fittings, to swap forearms. The gearing from the Vault winch, to increase torque and grip strength. Alongside a handful of covert tricks and traps.

After scrubbing a field stretcher clean, he hooked the handles on the lowest shelf and lay at an angle. He tied a tourniquet of rubber tubing around his left arm, squeezing a ball to get a vein to pop. Eventually, with the aid of a longer needle, he got the iv line in. The blood he’d drawn earlier that week began to flow back into his body.

“You are going to make a dreadful mess.” Mr. House stood over him, a monogrammed handkerchief held to his face.

“I know what I’m doing. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Away from you.” Burton dismissed his visitor, checking the injectors were in reach and separated by type.

“I, I, I. Have you learned nothing Burton.” Mr. House mocked him. Burton bit the cover off a scalpel, spitting it away. He held the point out, staring over it at the sneering Mr. House.

“I’m getting out.” He ran the scalpel across his bicep, deep and fast, ravaged flesh oozing viscose blood.

The first cut hadn’t gone deep enough. Burton grabbed the rolled up bandages and bit down on them. The pain spiked as he cut deeper through the scarred skin and muscle. Soon inky blood began to pour, sending the system into a panic. He shut out the warnings, fighting the urge to take a hit of med-x. He had to stay lucid for what was to come. A teeth grinding scrape heralded a blast of pure agony.

“Number ten.” Burton looked to the Assaultron crouched at his side. The last one still standing. “If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.” He gave the passcode to trigger the preprogrammed response.

“Confirmed.” A thin beam of red fired from the cranial laser. Burton looked away as the heat, and pain, built to a near intolerable level.

Suddenly the warnings in his eyes vanished, followed by a wet thud. He turned back to see his left arm, smouldering and severed from the mid bicep. His breathing became rapid and shallow, panic racing to get out. He reached for an injector to kill the pain.

“Please remain still.” The bot pinched his left shoulder with a triple pronged claw, sliding the steel brace over the stump. Somehow, even through his dulled senses and inhuman tolerances, the pain grew worse as the brace tightened.

Mirco sensors pushed tendrils into the twitching muscles. The conductive gel softened, moulding around the stump. The built in micro fusion cell fired, powering the arm and running a faint charge through his nano filament wrapped bones.

The pain began to dip and Burton got to his feet. He checked his pulse and blood pressure, the old fashioned way. All pretty much normal, for him anyway.

He tested the arm, the movement worked. The ball and socket elbow hinged forward and back. The wrist rotated in a full circle. The claws gripped and released. Good enough for now, he thought, leaving the stockroom without looking back.

Inside the water purification room, Burton changed into a worn set of fatigues. Tossing the boots and can of water in a simple canvas bag. He forced himself to take long deep breaths while opening the hatch in the clean water pipe. He checked the emergency air bottle. Designed for people caught in fire suppressing gas. Fifteen minutes of air, for a sixty minute journey.

With complete faith in getting out, Burton stepped into the pipe. In one motion he slipped in, pulling the hatch down behind him. The temperature almost made it pleasant, as long as his eyes were closed. He let the current push him along, through the straight tunnel. The slow beating of his heart became the only sound.

The current began to flow faster as the temperature increased. He started to kick, to pull himself along with his right arm. His left too heavy to be of use. The tunnel seemed to last forever. Every breathless minute stretched as far as possible before taking a finite gasp from the bottle.

In the watery blackness, his hand felt an edge. He pulled himself into the launch tube, kicking and pulling himself up towards the sliver of light. With one final breath sucked from the bottle, he put all he had into kicking.

The surface seemed to get further and further away, until suddenly he broke through into the night air. He gasped and bobbed in the water, resisting the urge to yell. He swam for the rocky shore. His strength sapped away by the cold. His clothes, pack, and arm weighed him down. He flagged for an instant and sank beneath the surface.

A minute later, he crawled on his hands and knees onto the shore. He collapsed onto his back and lay there, staring up at the sliver of moon for the first time in twenty years.

He could have laid there all night, but he had to see, to feel. He scrambled across the rough terrain, moving as fast as he could. Soon the ground became softer, and then he saw trees.

Burton ran his hand along the blackened bark. Letting his hand trail from one to the next.

A minute later he’d cleared the small patch of trees. It couldn’t have been more than a few square metres. Yet as the broken and twisted road dropped away, he spotted more and more clusters growing.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

He hadn’t realised just how much the air had cleared. Not till he found himself at the same place he’d met Suzette. Now he could see the top of the tower, the red light blinking. He made straight for it.

Burton allowed himself to stop and watch the sunrise. It hurt his eight ball black eyes at first, he closed and covered his eyes. As he slowly opened them to the world that remained, it felt like the colour being turned back on.

Orange sun lit blood red leaves, making them glow like embers. Standing water reflected shimmering streaks. All covered with the purest, endless blue. However the sight that pleased him most came from the tower. The steel skeletal gravestone, for a man whose ambition led to ruin, had a patchwork of new walls.

Burton thought his work, his penance, had come to an end. That he could live out his days as simply as possible. Now as trees, life, and hope bloomed all around him, he knew there was much to do. “Thank you.” He said aloud, to make sure he did at least once.

He made his way down to the base of the tower, weaving through the ruined buildings in its shadow. He heard voices. Men and women, the benign chatter of the everyday.

He peered round a corner, unsure why he felt the need to hide. He saw they carried tools, wore simple masks and goggles. A sharp whistle drew their attention. “That one.” Another man pointed at a ruined corner, and the people got to work. He watched them set about chipping away bricks. Others worked at carefully freeing the plate glass window.

He took a deep breath, and stepped out into the middle of the street. “Hello.” He shouted, keeping his hands in plain view. “I’m looking for a…” Burton trailed off seeing how disinterested the people were.

“Two blocks that way, bottom of the tower, big welcome sign. You can’t miss it.” One of the men reeled off an answer, barely breaking his rhythm of hammering. Burton thanked him and set off.

More people worked on more buildings. Using the reclaimed materials to patch holes, fix roof slates, rehang doors. Ahead of him he saw the well painted sign, hanging above an old security booth. He walked up to the window and tapped on the glass. Inside the young woman, lost in her book, jumped from her seat.

“Hi, hello, I mean welcome, please have a seat.” She pointed to chairs and tables set up outside, almost in the middle of the street. He heard her speak into a radio as walked away and took a seat.

“Perfect kill box.” He noticed Shaw, sitting in the empty seat next to him. Dressed in a sharp grey suit, telling him things he already knew.

“I know.” He answered under his breath, he could feel rifles aimed at him. The woman from the booth appeared. No older than twenty, wearing a shirt and jeans cut to fit. Skinny and pale, yet relentlessly upbeat.

“I’ll be right with you, can I get you anything? Water, tea, coffee, something to eat?”

“Actually, I could really go for a cigarette and black coffee.” He felt he’d just ordered vintage champagne and fillet mignon. She smiled and went into a refurbished building. He tried to ignore the probable sniper nests he saw, deliberately leaning back as if simply enjoying the morning sun.

A few minutes later, the woman returned clutching a coffee pot and mugs in one hand, a clipboard in the other. She poured them both coffee and sat, staying out of reach the whole time. “Almost forgot.” She sat and slid a pack of cigarettes over. “Shoot, need a lighter.”

“It’s fine.” He pinched the pack with his claw and tore a smoke free with his hand. A spark fired between the prongs, lighting his cigarette.

“That’s a neat trick.” The woman joked politely, her manner easy. “Shall we get this out of the way?” She tapped the pencil on the clipboard, trying to make it seem unimportant. He nodded. “Just a few questions. Name?”

“Virgil Nash.” He answered, she wrote it down. Shaw began laughing.

“Bureaucracy!” Shaw spat out with bemused contempt. “Not even got a secure perimeter, but there’s forms to fill in! Fucking civilians.” Burton glared at what everyone else saw as an empty chair.

“Do you have any weapons on you Mr. Nash?” She asked, without showing a hint of worry.

“No. Call me Virgil.” He tried to smile.

“Shit name.” Shaw chipped in. “Cover isn’t even backstopped. What if they check!” Shaw’s laugh began to grate.

“Shut up!” Burton snapped. The woman looked at him strangely. “Not you, I mean...sorry.”

“What did you do before?” She asked, changing the subject while he tried to read what she wrote.

“Army engineer, till…” He shrugged his shoulder, gesturing to the prosthetic. “After that I had a small business, bot repair. A little gunsmith work on the side.” He tried to keep it vague.

“That’s great. I’m going to type this up. Someone will be right with you.” The woman left him in the sun, smoking and drinking coffee. He enjoyed every minute, even with guns aimed at him.

After a short while later, two men approached. Tactical vests, slung carbines, badges made of tin. “Mr. Nash.” The older one spoke for them. “Sheriff Lovell. My deputy here is going to search you.” He stood and let the younger deputy frisk him. “Alright follow me, boss wants to meet you.”

The sheriff led him inside and into the construction elevator. He squeezed past other people and pallets of bricks. After stopping at a few floors, they reached the tenth. Sunlight streamed through the floor to ceiling windows. The pillars cast long shadows through the empty space. Desks and tables were clustered in a corner, people working at them and milling around.

“Wait here.” The sheriff left him a way back, approaching a group of people huddled around a table. A face popped up and looked right at him. A face ravaged and scarred like his. A face he remembered well. Yet another person showed him to a corner suite. Simple and mismatched furniture sat on one side. A messy workspace on the other. He ignored it all, almost pressing his face against the glass to take in the view.

The trees had spread farther than he dared hope, patches of red as far as he could see. More buildings crested the horizon. The makings of river forming in cracked earth.

He heard the door open then close behind him. “You took your time.” She quipped, like he’d turned up late for dinner.

“Hello Suzette.” He didn’t know what else to say. She flung her arms round him, pulling away as she felt his arm.

“What happened?!” She looked shocked as her hands lifted the prosthetic arm.

“It was the only way to be sure.” Cutting off his own arm had seemed perfectly rational to him. Yet seeing the horrified look on Suzette’s face made him uneasy.

“Sure of what?” She asked, trying to understand.

“That Burton Blake stays dead.” He let out a deep sigh and slumped into the comfy looking arm chair. “Have you seen any aircraft? Anyone asking questions?”

“No. Why don’t you get some rest.” Suzette humoured him.

“I don’t want to rest. Put me to work, boss.”