Andy was sitting by the roadside, dangling his legs over the cliff’s edge when he heard the engine. They had guests. Now was his moment. He scanned Clara’s flock of vaulties for his target: a young man wearing white overalls with blue trim carrying the shock rifle pillaged from the vault. Andy had let him tend to the weapon for long enough. While he was distracted scanning the approaching vehicle, Andy slipped the rifle off his shoulder and turned aside.

“Hey,” he called, but Andy strode away.

At first, the shock rifle felt off-balance in his hands, the wire coils and containment fixed to the barrel pulled the muzzle down, and he wasn’t sure how to use the controls. But his Firearms Finesse Augmentation module quickly configured its attributes, adapting him to its unusual weight, guiding him to the trigger–a rubber protected button much like the one on his walkie talkie.

Exciting the bus, Andy strode out into the middle of the road to greet the newcomers. Five motorbikes poked their heads above the wreckages, weaving down the flanks of the highway, while up the centre waded a large armoured vehicle fitted with a triangular dozer blade, painted to look like the snarling canine jaw. Two metal sheets slanted above the windshield like angry eyebrows, a fringe of barbed wire bounced like luscious curls as the truck rumbled through the wreckages. Andy recognised the vehicle from somewhere, but the recollection was buried beneath countless drunken blackouts. He wasn’t entirely sure if they were friendly.

Drawing Julie, Andy fired a warning shot into the sheet metal armour above the battlewagon's windshield. With a jolt, it broke to a stop. The eyebrows lowered over its face, forming a protective visor. The motorbike engines stopped getting louder–likely, the riders had dismounted to sneak towards him on foot. Andy checked his hip flask again, praying that there was a drop hidden in some miraculous crevice, yet it was still empty. He’d kill for a drink.

“I would refrain from shooting, if I were you.” The voice carried across the canyon on hull-mounted speakers, once more, oddly familiar.

Striding forward, Andy climbed atop the bonnet of a car, using its roof as cover. Shapes moved amongst the cars ahead of the battlewagon, coming closer. Two cars to his left, the afternoon sun shone brightly off the bald head of a short man. He looked at Andy sheepishly from where he crouched not-so-stealthily. Andy waved with Julie, holding the shock rifle in his other hand. “Come for the party? Did you bring anything?”

The man looked at him puzzled, then shifted back into cover.

Andy’s heart beat raised the tempo. They weren’t aggressive, but they weren’t friendly either. That was all the justification Andy needed.

“It’s BYOB,” he said, switching to his shock rifle and taking aim.“You need to bring your own B.”

The pop of a gunshot and ping of a bullet ricocheted off the car roof where he was kneeling. Ducking into cover, Andy clicked the trigger of the shock rifle, kicking out a beam of lighting which scattered over the bald man’s hiding spot, showering the derelict car with sparks. Andy heard him yell over rifle’s fizz, then two more bullets whizzed past his ears, and he decided it was time to jump down.

“Lay down your arms,” a voice commanded. It sounded louder and closer than was possible, but it wasn’t coming from the speakers–almost as if the voice was in his head. Wouldn’t be the first. Darting through the shadows of wreckages, Andy flanked his attackers. The short, bald man was sitting on the floor, clutching his chest, eyes wide, breathing heavy. A young man knelt beside him, peeking through the shattered car window towards the bus of vault dwellers, near where Andy had been standing just seconds before.

“How does it feel?” Andy asked. The boy jumped, his legs splaying out beneath him. He fumbled with a shotgun which looked all too large in his hands. Andy shot him with the shock rifle, a direct hit. The boy’s arms and legs straightened and flopped on the concrete like a fish. Residual lightning peppered the bald man as he curled into an egg, covering his face.

“Do you have any history of medical conditions?” Andy said. “I want to get the settings right. I can turn up the power more, but I imagine that will drain the battery.”

The bald man panted, grasping his heart, while his younger companion groaned face down in the dirty road.

“On a scale of one-to-ten, one being ‘not debilitated’, ten being ‘I just shat myself’, how painful was your experience?”

“Drop your weapon!”

Andy kicked off the floor like a grasshopper, landing on his back and firing at the voice behind him. Somebody had snuck up on him, holding a rifle to his face. As Andy shot him, he shot back, an arch of bullets narrowly missing Andy’s face. The rifle continued to spit bullets as the man fell, spasming in a shockwave.

Andy spun back into cover, ducking low and relocating to the edge of the highway beside the cliff face. With his back to the rock, at least one of his flanks was secure. His vision wavered as he scoured the roadside, sunlight gleaming off of car roofs. His temples stabbed and throbbed as the familiar concoction of combat enhancing hormones seeped into his veins, though the taste was notably diluted. His reflexes felt slow. There was very little left in the tank. Andy shook his head. There was shouting coming from the vaulties’ bus, but no more gunfire.

“Andy,” Clara squawked over his radio. “Where are you?”

“Left flank,” he replied. “You get any beans? Beans or booze, I’ll take either.”

“Surrender.” The voice came from the sky. Andy looked up, but no one was there. “You will not be harmed.”

“I could blow up their wheels,” Andy radioed, then turned to Julie. “Not as tough as a vault door, I’m sure you could manage it.”

Something struck him in the elbow, and he dropped Julie. Andy’s Reflex Shot instincts triggered, but a moment too late. He fired the shock rifle, but suddenly a weight was upon him, as though somebody was sitting on his chest. Andy’s knees buckled, flailing at the pressure, but his attacker was invisible. Not another apparition monster! Andy grunted as his skull banged off a car bonnet and he fell beneath the chassis. Above him, hovering impossibly, as though suspended on invisible strings, was a man whom he certainly did recognise–the bloke who had tried to cheat him at pool days earlier. Long sandy hair haloed his face, catching and absorbing the sunlight. He floated downwards, hands outstretched, fingers splayed as though he was tinkering on two invisible pianos.

“Come for a rematch?” Andy said, though the words rumbled together in his compressed throat. Reaching out, Andy summoned Julie to him. She rattled across the concrete, drawn by their Fatal Attraction, but suddenly halted, merely inches from his grasp. Andy stretched out for her, but she was motionless. His heart sank. She had abandoned him.

The pressure intensified. Andy gasped, struggling for air, as his nemesis drifted closer. The countless wounds criss-crossing his limbs ripped open, staining his bandages red. Pain tore at him, startlingly potent. Andy ground his teeth as the pressure in his skull built to a breaking point, his headache boiled his eyeballs in their sockets, bursting them with flashes of blistering white light. His nemesis snapped his fingers, and consciousness staggered into black…

Andy was looking down on himself, lying dead by the roadside… Or was that his reflection in a motorcycle helmet? Blackness. The smell of diesel. A grinding pain in his spine. Blackness. Something yanked his arms and pulled his hair. Pain. Blackness.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

When Andy woke, his hands were bound behind his back. He opened his eyes, but only a sliver of light penetrated the veil before his eyes. Adrenaline fizzed as his heart stammered to beat faster, but he was almost too exhausted to react. The synthetic smell of a canvas shopping bag merged with the warm stench of his own breath. Something was strapped across his chest, propping him upright. Someone coughed beside him and muttered. Andy could tell from the acoustics that he was in a small room, which wobbled on suspension. Likely, he was in the back of the battlewagon.

“Clara?”

“I’m here,” she said, sitting opposite him.

“No talking, you two,” another voice said, low and gruff.

“Are you alright?” Andy asked.

“I’m not hurt,” she said.

“No talking,” the man said sternly. Andy looked towards the sound, his hearing keen. He imagined he could sense the man’s body beyond the bag covering his face. Andy leant forward against his restraints, feeling them press against his shoulder–a cross over his chest. Probably a seatbelt. Slivering around, he searched for the clasp with his fingertips.

Something struck him in the face, knocking his head to the side. He collapsed, utterly incapable of anticipating the impact. “I don’t want to do that again,” the voice said. It didn’t sound like the sandy-blonde pool cheat.

Andy was shoved upright, a stranger's hands grasped him by the shoulders. He was wet and cold, except for hot slashes where his wounds had reopened. Panic rushed in to fill the void of exhaustion. “Don’t touch me,” he growled. Pressing his back to the wall, Andy kicked out, feeling the satisfying impact of flesh beneath his boot. Kicking, Andy bounced back against the wall, trying to make himself a moving target. Someone grabbed his leg, but Andy kicked at the fingers, his heavy boots stamping them like twigs.

A force like a hammer smashed into Andy’s skull. His head bounced off the back of the truck. Again, the hammer struck him, pinning him to the seat. Andy tucked his chin into his chest, but the hammer struck again. And again. Clara screamed, but her voice abruptly muffled. Andy lay on his side, trying to curl his legs above him, squirming in his restraints.

“Stop that!” someone yelled. “He’s chosen, don’t break him.”

“He kicked me in the nuts.”

“Control yourself.”

Andy’s head swam with all the different voices. He breathed into his bag, expecting another blow at any second. “Where are we?”

There was no response, so Andy sat up and repeated the question.

“No talking,” someone said, softer this time.

“Fuck you. Where am I?”

“Gag him,” the gruff voice said. “I’m not listening to this shite the whole way there.”

Andy flinched at invisible hands, lifting his head to peek through the slit of light beneath his nose. He could see their feet surrounding him in the dim light. Hands grasped his arms, one under his neck. Andy squirmed, but it was useless. There was a rasp of gaffer tape, then someone wrapped the bag over his mouth. For a moment, he sat still, unable to breath, until they tore the bag over his nose, creating a small gap from which he could see out. Andy snorted in the musty air, the torn bag tickling his nose.

There were seven men in the back of the truck, sitting on benches, or standing clutching chains which dangled from the roof. They were all armed with military grade weaponry–assault rifles, shotguns, grenades and the like. There were firing slits in the walls, reinforced with metal sheets and sliding latches. A rope canvas covered the roof, suspending large rucksacks, bulging with supplies. A tool rack clung to the double doors at one end, as well as a medical kit, a coil of thick rope, and a stack of books locked into a wire-mesh cabinet. There was a hatch on the roof with a retractable ladder–one escape option, if the chance came–but Andy had a feeling it wouldn’t.

Andy checked his belt and pockets as best he could in cuffs, but he had been stripped of weapons. His holster was empty. Had Julie really abandoned him? Surely, he was mistaken. Andy tried to sense her, but their Fatal Attraction was dim. Either she was far away, or she was ignoring his beckon.

Andy glanced at Clara. She was staring at him. Andy murmured against his gag, trying to reassure her, or stick his thumb up or wink, but it was impossible to communicate anything. Sighing, he sat back on the bench, rocking steadily against the truck’s suspension. Each jolt in the road kneaded his injuries, rubbing against his countless cuts, sustained by the shadow demon. But he was almost too tired to care. His wounds, once sharp, grew numb…

Andy hadn't noticed falling asleep until the truck’s engine stopped. He blinked awake, but the bag still obscured his vision. By his estimates, he’d been out for a few hours. The sound of heavy boots clanged against the metal floor as a group of men disembarked. Andy remained still, pretending to be asleep, listening to their conversations. It dawned on him then just how bad their situation was. There was no fight to be had. They’d been captured, tied up, disarmed. He was so tired he could barely keep awake, even when he needed to be alert. Bloodloss. That, and sheer exertion. Andy sighed and tried to speak, then remembered the gag.

“Are you there?” Andy murmured, imagining the presence of his AI implant inside his skull.

Present, the voice returned.

“Any words of wisdom?” His words were muffled by the gag, but so long as he spoke them out loud, it seemed his AI was able to listen.

Negative.

“Any suggestions?”

Negotiation is recommended. Evidence indicates that the man observed levitating may be an Augmented individual, possessing the Telekinesis archetype, developed during the wave two of Bulwark Project serum.

“Okay, what are his powers?”

My information is based on the development schematics of wave two Augmentation serums, however, these schematics only cover initial design, they cannot accurately predict the development of the Telekinesis archetype’s progression. Please restore the Bulwark Master Network and-

“Shut up,” Andy grunted. “What can you tell me now?”

The Telekinesis archetype was developed during the second wave of Augmentation serums designed to combat the variety and severity of apocalypses in the months preceding the cataclysm, focussing on combative capabilities without a reliance on modern technology or access to energy sources. This second wave of Augmentations were designed to flexibly adapt to the challenges their implanted soldier’s faced.

“What abilities?” Andy repeated.

Telekinesis. Control over foreign objects using the materialised focus of one’s mind. The pushing and pulling forces. Predicted avenues of progression are the propulsion of objects to create projectiles, the fineness of precision manipulation from distance, and the elevation of heavy objects, improving or allowing aerial manoeuvrability.

Andy grumbled and sat upright. “Sounds overpowered.”

The second wave of Augmentation serums were fourteen percent more effective than the first wave at developing an effective countermeasure to the cataclysm.

“What wave am I?”

Your Augmentation serum was amongst the first to be developed. Archetype: Gunslinger. Wave one.

OG, Andy thought cynically. Or maybe not. I’m a Vampire Gunslinger now, that’s got to be even better. Dare he say it… Wave Four?

With nothing to do but wait, Andy listened as the men embarked and the engine started again. They drove for hours, the soldiers sharing scant conversations, but Andy didn’t have the energy to listen in for what good it would do. Finally, the truck rolled to a stop and he was dragged out, pushed and shoved in seemingly random directions. His legs shook beneath him, made wobblier by his lack of vision. He tripped, but thick hands caught him under the arms, dragging him on like a piece of meat. Andy stiffened and squirmed, but could do no more. He listened to the footsteps around him as their number diminished from perhaps dozens, to just three, echoing off the interior of some building. There was a strange metallic scent in the air, oddly clean, mixed with a breeze of fresh air.

Andy was made to duck down, then stand still. Somebody cut the tape over his mouth and wrenched the bag over his head. Andy snarled, eyes fixing on his captor’s neck, but before he could pounce, others shoved him to the ground and closed a cage over the small doorway. Andy lied on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to footsteps depart. His cell was a small room, seemingly coated in a silvery sheen. There was no intact furniture, just bare metal walls and a cold, gritty floor, littered with an odd, metallic debris. Rolling onto his front, Andy curled into a ball then sat upright. He crawled on his knees over to the doorway and pressed his face into the steel bars. Outside was a small corridor, wide enough for just about two people to fit down. The same metal rubble had been swept aside, forming banks in the bottom corners of the floor. Soft moonlight glinted in the walls, shining from somewhere unseen.

Andy panted as he wilted. The cage bars dug into his cheeks, but he didn’t have the strength to move. “Clara. Sis, are you there?”

Silence.