Matt leapt the final staircase and skidded to a halt atop an empty roof, with nowhere left to go.
His vision swam. His legs were lead. His chest had stopped heaving, simply content to seize, clenching in a vain attempt to stop his lungs collapsing in on themselves. He stumbled forward, lurching towards the edge of the building, free hand clutching loose his injured shoulder. He was… well oh wow he was losing a lot of blood. This, ugh, this was starting to be something of a habit.
“Jane…” he murmured, stumbling forward with staggering footsteps, “Any time now…”
In the distance he could see her still fighting. How could anyone not? The light of Dawn shone like a star, like the Aurora Nirvanas, a golden maelstrom of energy burrowing into the corrupting grey. She was so close to the centre, the entire field now buckling around her. She’d almost done it. And he was almost not dead. Almost. So close.
But there was nowhere left to run. No more silly bullcrap. Beneath him, behind him, the footsteps coming up the stairs had decreased into a steady, relentless thud, following unwavering along his erratic, bloody trail. Thud. Thud. One foot in front of the other, the murderous gait of a predator slowly stalking its prey, savouring the fear, the trapped moments sweetening the killing.
Matt winced as he shrugged off Azleena’s bugout bag, the weight of it now depressingly empty as he dangled it over the concrete, holding the strings from both hands. What was in there now? A protein bar? A smoke bomb? Those cans of deodorant he’d picked up? He’d had some thought of turning those into makeshift flamethrowers, but Matt no longer had a flare and he didn’t have a lighter. Also the blood on his hands kept slipping, and he was having trouble seeing straight.
None of those were going to do anything. The smoke wouldn’t even slow him down; the bag itself? Maybe if he could get it on the attacker’s head and then play dead man rodeo, with only one working arm and a significant amount of blood loss. Sure, seemed doable. The deodorant and the rations? Well, the man coming to kill him might be smelly or hungry. But Matt guessed the final soldier was probably not the type to be deterred by petty niceness, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have been picked to assassinate him in the first place.
Oh God I’m thinking nonsense, Matt thought, reeling. May he die as he lived, the king of stupid tricks, having exceeded everyone’s expectations. There were worse ways to go.
Desperate, Matt once more bent his working arm down and rummaged inside the bag, feeling desperately for something, anything he could use.
Wait. His fingers closed clumsy around something that felt like a metal ice cream cone, groping down around a handle. He fumbled in the bottom of the bag, feeling another, then drew one of them out. Ice cream cone shaped stabby things. Like a little umbrella or mushroom of solid silver, with an aggressive point on the end and a handle. Wall climbers. Matt almost laughed out loud. The roof was completely bare. He wasn’t facing any walls.
Except-
And suddenly, Matt had an idea so monumentally stupid it couldn’t possibly fail.
He broke into a lopping run, sweeping his gaze around the surrounding buildings. Directly in front of him, on the short side of the rectangle, there was only empty air, but on the long east and west sides… skyscrapers. Other buildings, fully constructed ones, each taller than this. Separated on his left by a thirty‑foot gap. And on his right a mere forty.
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Could he do it? Was he strong enough? Dexterous?
And then in a rush of understanding Matt suddenly realised either way that he was dead. So why not go out in a blaze of idiocy? Why not make this stupid ape traipsing up the stairs work for his goddamn kill?
Matt stuck the ice cream stabber between his legs and hurled the smoke grenade down the stairs, then flung the bag away, forgotten. As he heard the soldier cough and swear, heard his footsteps hasten, Matt gripped the wall climber with his working hand and ran towards one side of the building.
Die how you lived, Matt told himself; stupid plans and mind games.
*****
The man who called himself Jackson stalked up the last of the stairs and into open air, the labour of his breathing mixing with the rush of wind buffeting his helmet. He pushed through the smoke, the distraction harmless, the flexible filter in his balaclava purging the smog before any could suck down into his airways. Cold gusts whipped at his hair, the small gaps around the back of his neck still exposed to the elements, his rifle raised, his steps quick now but cautious. A frightened rat will bite when it’s cornered. Unless it has nothing left to bite with. Unless it’s merely scrabbling for time, as the wolf draws ever near.
The smoke cleared – the roof exposed. Jackson glanced around him, swinging the muzzle of his rifle, seeing nothing but empty concrete. The man’s breathing quickened and his eyes bulged. No. NO! How?! He’d come so far! There was nowhere to run, the boy had nowhere to hide, he couldn’t-
But then Jackson’s eyes fell on the buildings either side of him. Looming, forty, fifty stories tall, waiting across a gap stretching an entire street. No. It was impossible. He could have done it with his super strength, easily, but the boy? Wounded, dripping blood, chased down and run ragged? Yet maybe, with an adrenaline surge… with no baggage and just the right amount of wind…
His eyes came to rest on the human’s backpack lying abandoned on the rooftop, the blood trail running from one side of the roof to the other. He did it, Jackson swore. That crazy human bastard, he really-
The squad leader’s head swung either side of him, judging the distances of the gap. The one on the left was smaller. If the boy had jumped, that would’ve been his best shot. Jackson stalked over to the ledge of the building, dropping the tip of his gun, peering over. There was no one clinging to the skyscraper on the far side. And in the street below it… carnage. Debris, chaos. He could see several people moving, some laid out and motionless, a few dead… was Callaghan one of them? Had he been so desperate, so foolish, maybe preferring to go out on his own terms – to go out by his own hand…
Jackson’s grip tightened around his rifle. No. This wasn’t over until he’d seen his corpse. He’d have to… he’d have to get back down there, pass as a regular soldier amongst the bodies and-
Suddenly a thought hit him, and Jackson stopped. All day he and his people had been underestimating Matt Callaghan, even when they had been consciously trying not to. What had he learned? What did he understand about his quarry? The boy was ruthless. The boy was cunning. But most of all, the boy understood people. Got into their heads with this keen, uncanny insight, and in a moment knew how to make them see what he wanted, draw from them a reaction, manipulate their response.
An empty rooftop. A discarded bag. A thirty-foot gap and a twelve-story drop. All pieces of a puzzle Jackson had easily brought together, united by a common thread: desperation. But he had assumed, he had assumed desperation. He had assumed panic. He had assumed wrong. Matt Callaghan never panicked. Matt Callaghan lied.
Slowly, Jackson lifted his gaze up from the street on the left of the building and swung his rifle back towards the right. Towards the other side, the other street, and the forty‑foot gap. Logic said only a fool would’ve tried it. Yet misdirection fed on logic.
He strode across the rooftop, boots cracking on the concrete. In the distance, the light Lady Dawn was blasting against the unnatural grey shone like a second sun, a lighthouse warning Jackson against impending death against the rocks. But she was occupied. His brief had guaranteed she’d be occupied, they all would, until that grey bubble went down.
Jackson put one foot on the building’s edge, sweeping his gaze over the city below. More carnage, more fire and destruction. He bent down.
And there, two feet below him, dangling one‑armed from the side of their building from some sort of mechanical piton, hung Matt Callaghan.
“Gotcha,” smiled the soldier.