The virus crawled across his wet tongue, prickling and writhing like a sea of microscopic bugs. It dripped from the cut on his chin and spilled from his hot, humid lungs with every frantic breath. Connor had fucked up, and it was taking everything he had to undo it. At some point, somewhere in his flight through the factory he had fallen over. The rampant virus was consuming him. His body-made factory was left unchecked, its workers angry and willing to revolt. It spread. Mutated. Attacked him — wave after wave after wave. Connor blacked out, his body going into overdrive to tackle the reckless monster he had created. The blueprint for the cure was thrown out and a whole new treatment was devised from scratch.

He woke on the floor, body covered in cold sweat, thirsty but otherwise fine. He inspected his surroundings. He’d made it into a toilet block, falling asleep on the tiled floor before he could hide in one of the white panelled stalls. He checked the cell-phone for the time. It was nearly five in the morning. The virus had knocked him out for the entire night. If it was hard for him with his accelerated healing, it would be worse for everyone else. The bastards that had locked him up would have a struggle with finding the cure. They’d be better off cratering the whole building from the air…

“They wouldn’t. Would they?”

Who knew what Kemprex was capable of? They certainly didn’t blink twice at trying to kill him. Either way it gave him a respite - a long, short or permanent one.

Connor trundled over to the sink and helped himself to a long drink from the faucet before switching on the hot tap and washing the blood and muck from his chest and face. The hoodie and t-shirt he wore were cut to ribbons. He tore free from the last few scraps of cloth keeping them together. The trackpants were much the same down the legs, but at least they kept his modesty. The stolen items weighed down his pockets, threatening to change that. New clothes were high on his list of things to scavenge, along with some more food. He grabbed the loose skin on his belly. What muscle he had grown had been cannibalised. He was back to his scrawny self, with arms that could barely hold back a child let alone a Programmed Human.

“I need to stop getting shot…”

That idea came back. If he had the time, he could grow the right weapons and armour to defend himself. When would that time come though? Connor stopped washing himself and looked to the door. It was time to see.

He poked his way down the corridor, hand-cannon pointing at the ground. It was built for a Pro and made his own hands seem like a child’s. He doubted he could shoot more than one soul-crushing bullet before breaking his own wrist. It made him feel better though. Safer.

Was the safety on?

Click.

Now it wasn’t.

The place was silent. Like a mausoleum or a tomb. He expected sirens or the detonation of napalm. Ice slid into his bowels. Had he killed them all? Part of him wished that he had. The other scolded him. It was a difficult mental precipice to climb, being both right and wrong, or perhaps morally checked out yet horrified at the neutrality. Perhaps napalm was the answer… Connor pushed on. He had come this far, he wasn’t going to quit now. It was Kemprex’s fault for sending the soldiers after him. He only wanted freedom.

Connor found himself back in the processing room. The two dead Programmed Humans were where he had left them, untouched except for the rampant virus digesting their poor, bloated bodies in the open air. Connor winced and walked away before he threw up, their stench worse than anything he had ever encountered before. In the changing rooms he paused to rifle through the lockers in search of clothing and a bag. He put together an outfit of grey slacks, black business shoes and socks, a white cotton shirt and a navy blue blazer. It wasn’t the warmest clothing but at least he wasn’t naked.

Stolen story; please report.

Connor laid out his supplies on a bench. His search had brought up a few packages of dried food, an open packet of jerky, a little school bag and several open water bottles. Connor removed the trash and child’s drawings from the bag and crammed in his swag. He held onto the phone last. He desperately wanted to call his mother, but several factors stood in his way.

One. The phone was locked, and he didn’t have the code.

Two. He had suspicions that Kemprex would be monitoring her phone calls.

Three. They could probably trace his location with it.

Connor dug through the phone’s leather case, finding an R.F credit chit and a bunch of I.Ds. Connor kept the chit and binned the rest. He removed the battery from the phone and tossed it in the bag. Perhaps he could sell it for some cash.

He hitched the bag over a shoulder. The 50. gripped in his hand like a safety blanket. The factory workers would be here soon. Unless Kemprex had warned a government department about the killer disease he had unleashed. Would that mean more cops outside? The C.D.C? A division of Programmed U.S Army Rangers? Connor rubbed his temple with his free hand. What was he thinking, using a deadly virus as a means of surviving? How many people could he have killed? What if it got out into the county? Maybe he should call for the damn napalm strike.

“Just wait and see. You don’t know anything. Can’t keep speculating…”

There were more decomposing bodies in the outer foyer. Three Pros lay dead on the floor in pools of coagulating fluid. Connor passed the office where the cleaner had hidden the night before. The wooden door was ajar. Brains painted the walls and picture frames. Muffled music still blared from the tinny speakers of his cheap headphones. Connor sighed. Another innocent life to add to the list of those hurt by his actions. His finger squeezed the trigger slightly. It would be an easy way out.

Connor tucked the gun into his waistband before he did anything hasty. He believed in the power of redemption. He could turn his life around, mend the damage he had done and reset the scales of justice. He could heal the sick and injured, as he proved he could with that veteran back home in Boise. That was the legacy he wanted to continue — helping those that needed it most, not killing everybody who crossed his path. He had to survive first.

The squawk of a radio made Connor nearly wet himself. Heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor toward him. He backtracked to the locker room and peered through the crack in the door. Three people dressed in bio-armour entered the building with weapons in hand, flashlights secured to the under barrel. Behind them came another team in hazmat suits carrying large, heavy suitcases. Connor turned and crept away from the door, worried they’d see his silhouette and shoot. He skulked back into the processing room, looking for a way out of the building. A double door led to the shipping department. Connor ducked and dodged his way through the room and out the swinging doors. Beyond was a loading bay. Tall canvas roller-doors guarded freezers and cold-rooms storing packed chicken meat and carcases. He trotted through the loading bay, searching for an exit.

At the far end of the enormous room were several steel roller-doors and a set of refrigerated trucks. Connor slowed to a stop. Kemprex or their pet agencies would have the building surrounded. Step foot out of one of those doors and a hail of bullets was waiting for him. Connor turned around looking for another exit. High above were a set of skylights. If he refurbished his tendrils he could pull himself up to safety…

“Then what, dumbass? You’d be stuck on the roof.”

He hung his head, thinking. The picture of a chicken caught his eye, its image plastered over the sides of the trucks and the empty boxes stacked against the walls. The chicken held up a wing, giving him the thumbs up and a wink. A very cocky chicken, all things considered.

“What if I grew wings?”

Connor looked back at the cold-rooms. He was certainly surrounded by enough raw material to grow them. He looked at his hands, tossing up the idea in his head. It wasn’t the dumbest idea. It wasn’t the smartest either. How long of a wingspan would he need? They’d need to be the size of a paraglider to hold him in the air… Chickens weren’t exactly known for their superior aerial feats.

“What am I doing?” he sighed, walking back to scavenge enough chicken meat and feathers to grow a set of human sized wings.