“I’m a Deadman walking,

hells at my door

I’m a shadow of the man I was before

I’m a dead man walking

before I die

I’ll take every soul I can into the night

and kill till I die”- WAR*HALL

The lyrics echoed in my ears as I weaved the Razor through traffic. The hallow strum of the guitar might as well of been my soul as I laid on the throttle and rocketed off the interstate. 184 into the heart of downtown, which put me a hop skip and a jump from the old reserve building where Rooker was, if I knew him, already staging the convoy.

I’d been depressed for months, clinically depressed. While I still felt it, I’d moved onto more of a melancholy mindset with hints at resigned determination.

Yeah, I was fucked, but so what? We are all doomed, I might as well go out my way.

I guess in a way Rooker had been right, not that I’d admit it. Working was awakening something in me that needed drug back into the light. Yet, even the prospect of getting back into the mix wasn’t enough to completely drag the sliver of pain from my soul.

Entering downtown proper, the scraps of last nights could be seen everywhere under the neon lights. Stopped at the Capital BLVD light, I noticed that ahead of me, resting in the pink and blue glow of The Torch Gentlemen’s club sign, were several empty bottles, filled with cigarette butts and detritus. On my left, in a sickly yellow glare a single high-heeled shoe had been left in the gutter with a broken strap.

As silly as it sounds, I felt bad for the shoe. Once a celebrated pair that some women loved immensely, now a cast off adrift in the night. I chuckled realize how melodramatic I was being.

“Get your head in the right space, Abby.” I admonished myself, then reached down to adjust my music choice. I needed something more empowering.

“That’ll get it. Japanese Dark Trap and Bass.” I grinned under my helmet and leaned into the corner before gunning it.

One thing I could be sure of is that there would be no corporate security patrolling at 0500. Tucked away in their bakeries and sipping on coffee while discussing the score from the Broncho's the night before, they were too busy locking up their guns, or checking them out to be worried about one rider, even if I was doing 50 KPH in a 35.

The sound of the Razor thrummed through downtown. It was a haunting sound and for a second it reminded me of sitting in a window smoking a cigarette moments before Kane breathed his last.

“Focus Abby. You’ve relived it enough.” That memory of a voice said in the back of my mind.

“Focus.” I agreed and shifted down through the gears as I rolled through the roundabout and popped a wheelie as I raced toward PTS’s headquarters.

In seconds, I could see the convoy lined up, and grinned as I realized I was right. Rooker had two Tactical Assault Vehicles for each Boxer Armored Logistics Transport. Boxers and TAVs were common enough, everyone from banks to pop stars used something similar. The major difference was ours were painted sandy brown and were clearly marked PTS with our Mountain Goat Logo.

“Where do you want me, Rooker?” I called as I roll up, extending the track wide for added balance even as the formation Rooker had been holding dissolved.

Rooker rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at the two Boxers. “Load the Razor to the swing arm on the rear of the first Boxer, you can ride with Dizzy. Bravo Team.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” I replied.

Biodiesel exhaust was thick in the air, and the low rumble of the Boxers carried the feel of the pre-mission tension that was everywhere.

Rooker raised his chin, his way of asking me to hold up a second. “Bro, I’m glad you came. You gonna be okay?”

Behind him the trucks idled noisily, and people hurried to load the last-minute items and check their gear. It was a scene I’d been a part of so many times, a scene that echoed a home I once belong to.

“Why can’t it be home again?” A voice whispered in the back of my mind.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, and in that moment, I realized I believed it.

“Look, I know you don’t really have a choice here. But I’m glad you agreed to come.” He said, then dug into his pocket sheepishly.

“What are you doing, Rooker?” I asked.

“I want you to use these on the mission,” he said and handed me a small oval container.

“Neuro-Lenses? Rooker, that’s too much.” I said and pushed his hands away.

“They aren’t the best, but they’ll keep you from using that old crappy VCG’s frame on your head. Besides, these you can wear with your helmet.” He grinned and pushed the case into my hands.

“Thanks. I don’t know what to say,” I felt heat come over my cheeks.

“Bro, this is a chance for you to get it together. Just focus and run this mission. When it’s over, we can talk about getting back on track.”

I hated it when people told me to focus. It was condescending and implied I was out of control when I was fine.”

“We’ll find Zita for Kāne, but we do it together.” He was saying, but a voice pulled both of your attention away.

“What is all this crap?” A woman called from the back of the second Boxer.

“Is there a problem? If not, I am asking you to leave the cargo alone.” a man said as he hurried over toward her, and it was immediately clear he wasn’t part of PTS.

“I’m leading this mission. So, if I’m hauling it, I want to know what it is.” The woman, a black-haired lady with a cheap-looking prosthetic right hand, stepped off the back of the truck and glared daggers at the man approaching.

“I thought Miss, Emerson was leading the mission,” he said and looked between us.

“Not me, I’m just a contractor.” I replied and saw a look of displeasure from Rooker at my self-distancing.

The man, dressed in expensive new armor that was painted in obnoxious digital camouflage, and he was glaring at Hope malevolently. Thin, and clearly not familiar with the fit and wear of armor, seemed more like the tin man on the Wizard of Oz than a soldier. By Rooker’s scowl, I could tell he didn’t really like the man.

“You are being paid to take cargo from point A to point B. Not to ask questions.” The man countered, but Rooker easily slipped between the two, his own armor collided with the thin man’s and forced him back a step.

“Mr. Byer, is it okay if I call you Justin?” Rooker said and rested a meaty hand on the back of the man’s shoulder pad.

“I prefer if you-“Justin started to say, but Rooker cut him off smoothly.

“Justin, everything is okay. My drivers are professionals, and we have all been contract-sworn to secrecy. But I understand why you might not want people talking about your valuable, and now very well protected supplies. But remember, these fine soldiers are not just transportation, they are assisting your settlement, so maybe take a little time to get to know them. I am sure you will all be good friends after this.”

“Radi-“Hope started to say something but Rooker cut her off with a glare.

“Hope, I can promise you have I have reviewed the inventory list, and there is nothing in there that can blow up, leak, or bite you. Is that understood?” Rooker asked and Hope, St Clair visible deflated.

It didn’t take me long to get this man’s measures. He was middle-aged, and city soft despite wearing the modern armor. This was a middle management type who was more concerned with sucking up to those above him, then taking care of his people. My guess was that he demanded the armor upgrades just for this ride along.

Justin’s hair combed to a widow’s peak above his flat forehead, and a set of beady brown eyes, I immediately thought of the weasel from the kids’ Saturday morning cartoons. He wouldn’t have been out of place in a cheap suit, with a corny tie though he might have been of the loose clothing of the commune. I had the feeling he would have seemed out of place any but an office.

“I’m glad I can count on your professionalism, Mr. Rooker. I hope Miss St. Clair’s is pre mission jitters is a fluke.” The weasels responded.

“I’ll show him professionalism.” Hope growled under her breath, but Rooker was already maneuvering Justin toward the front Boxer.

“I think it’s better you ride with Jennings and Abby in the first truck. That’s okay with your right Abbs?” Rooker said but didn’t give me a chance to reply.

“Now, get to work everyone. Abbs, Dizzy will get you settled in.” He laughed like he’d said something funny, then turned and walked towards Beto.

“You took care of our guest Beto?” I could hear Rooker asking, and Beto turned to look at Hope, who took in a deep breath before nodding to Beto to let the interaction go.

Beto paused for a moment only, then any expression on his face dropped as the professional soldier took over, and he lead Justin toward the Boxer.

“Hey Dizzy,” Someone yelled, and as I turned to look in that direction, something pink soared passed and was snatched out of the air. “What am I supposed to do with that thing?” Dizzy asked the man with a name tag that read, “Jennings”, clearly the Boxer’s driver.

“It’s a weeness. You know,” he flushed a little, but his bright white teeth shown as well. “So girls can stand up to pee.”

Dizzy rolled her eyes and threw it back at him. “You better hold on to this then, I understand you tend to walk around with a wet spot without one.”

The other guys laughed, but Sergeant Elizabeth ‘Dizzy’ Flores just shook her head. It wasn’t her first trip out with these guys, but they never stopped giving her hell when given an opportunity.

The precombat banter was nothing new, it had been going on since before the Romans marched on Greece. All the HR videos in the world couldn't stop it, nor should it. When things are about to go down you have to be able to connect on a human level to those around you, sure there were limits, but soldiers are immature by nature, and if a good fart, piss or vomit joke could be slipped in between triple checking your Kit, more's the better.

The so called “Weeness” had been something we had actually been trained on, to some extent. It was basically a catch cup you could press against your pelvis that had a hose to send the piss out instead of pulling off your armor and squatting.

The problem with that wasn’t the embarrassment of pulling down your pants as much as it was the complicated body armor systems. The Soldier Protection System Mark II, affectionately known as our “KIT” was a fully inter-graded body armor system. Complete with protection for all the vital organs and arteries, which made it exceptionally annoying to take off when a lady needed to wizz.

So instead of pulling down your pants, you had to unhook a pelvis guard, and then our pants and use the catch cup and external hose to relieve yourself.

No, the weeness was a good concept. It just sucked to have to haul around a piss-soaked catch cup and Pee-soaked TP you had to stuff into it afterward to keep from getting piss collecting at the bottom of the bag.

“You’d think by now men would understand how not to act like a poorly produced sexual harassment video.” I scoffed as Dizzy walked by, jerking her head in indication that I should follow.

As she extended the boom arm, and helped me roll the Razor into position, she laughed and shook her head. “They’re guys. Immature, silly boys who think they are being funny, or charming.”

She was pretty, with short curly blond hair, framing a square face and pointed chin. Her dimples were disarming, but her corded forearms were proof she earned her place here. She was a fighter. Oh, the battlefield, or the nightclub, however, she was dressed for the part, and made it look good.

“Did I miss much of the briefing?” I asked.

“Situation, Mission, Execution, blah, blah, Blah. Same old, same old. You were in the mission request meeting, so you know what’s going on,” She waved off the question.

“Check your HUDS for the route!” Hope bellowed.

We were going to convoy down Reserve St, toward Fort and then take Broadway. It was a familiar route, but I wasn’t sure I enjoyed taking the direct route to the lift pad. Broadway was nothing like the famous avenue in New York. Not unless it fell into ruin and was more like old world Brooklyn.

Seedy bars, pawnshops, and hotels just off the freeway that could be rent by hour, if you knew the right courtesan. For Rooker, the route was basically his commute home each night.

“What’s the deal, Rooker? Did you need to stop by your mom’s house on the way?” I yelled, which earned me an immediate one-finger salute from Rooker and the attention of the rest of the platoon.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I could feel their eyes wandering over my ASF, the curiosity, the wondering. I felt both proud of my creation and shammed that I had to use it.

“Ignore Ms. Emerson, Abby is just a sour faced crone because she has a stupid little gun and bad taste in transportation.”

“Hey! What’s wrong with my gun?” I asked and patted the Governor Six Shot .410-.44 caliber pistol.

Rooker sauntered over toward me, his smile apparent. “It was only ever a gimmick. It’s like Dirty harry meets, Charles Bronson, or some such bullshit.”

“Hey, you can toss out meaningless names, then so can I,” I scoffed.

Rooker blinked. “You don’t know who Dirty Harry is?”

“It doesn’t matter old man, I’ve got a better gun,” I grinned and pulled out Kāne’s SIG M17 Combat Pistol.

“And what is wrong with how the Razor looks?” Beto said flatly.

Rooker winced and raised both hands to ward off the glare Beto was shooting him.

“I’m not saying it looks like the love child of a Remington Electric Travel Razor, and a Snowmobile. I’m just saying it would have looked cooler without the bubblegum pink paint.” Rooker chuckled, but as everyone turned to look, I used the adaptive camouflage to mute it.

“What are you talking about, Rooker? Pink? Are you going senile?” Beto said straight faced and tossed his helmet and bug out bag into the first cargo truck.

“Oh, fuck you guys.” Rooker groaned and walked over to the Bravo Team Leader. “Beto is the Alpha team leader, but you don’t have to take any slack from these jokers.”

Dizzy grinned, and even in the dark it looked like a blush rose in her cheeks. “No sir, Captain. If he gives me any crap I will have our beautiful, Commander St. Clair set him straight. He seems to respond to her...leadership exceptionally well.”

“Don’t be a suck up Dizzy.” he said, his tones still flat, and Dizzy snapped back to attention. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Sergeant!” She said, but her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress a laugh.

****

“St. Claire!” Jennings yelled from the bottom of his turret and only popped up once we were both looking. “We have comms from the client, there seems to be a convoy of irregular types moving toward their settlement.”

“How big is the element?” she asked, but we were already moving to mount up.

“Operations says their drone has six vic’s, bed mounted HMGs on three, the other three are covered, so they are presuming Outsider scavengers with small arms in the other three.”

“Can we intercept?” I asked as my frame hammered on the pavement as I made my way for the Boxer and jumped into the command seat, but we were already starting to move. I knew I wouldn’t have much time once the action started, so I grabbed the bottle of Sertra-Modafinil tabs and popped two in under my tongue.

“Maybe, but when they see us there is a good chance they will run like hell. They are not known for their courage,” Beto chimed in as he chambered a round.

I plugged in my headset and could hear Beto before the black plastic cushions were fully in place on my ears. “Roger that, Dizzy, Out. Abby, this is Beto, over,” He called.

“Beto, this is Abby, go ahead.” I said and pulled out the Neuro-Lenes and extend the case before holding it up to my eyes. A quick puff of air made me jump, but instantly the lenses were seated, and date started to roll in.

It was a standard HUD set up, but this one had features I wasn’t used to. “Zone Tactical Analytics?” I pondered, then shook my head and focused on the map symbol.

“Abby, this is Hope. It looks like our action indicator is up Simco Road, Rooker said we are to attempt to intercept but we don’t know how bad the settlement has been hit. Over.”

“St Clair, this is Abby. Do we have any air assists?” I asked.

On the map, I could see our icon moving rapidly toward the one ramp of the freeway, but Simco Road was a good fifty minutes from where we currently were. Once we go there, it was at least another hour out into the desert before we would even get the beacon to guide us into the settlement.

“You are our air assets, but I don’t think we have the time for you to deploy your drones,” Beto growled.

“Can we cut down Pleasant Valley and travel cross-country through the old Orchard Range?” I asked.

The Orchard Combat Training Center (OCTC) was huge, complete with 20 or more ranges, including a bombing range. But it had all went corporate in the early 2030s and had been largely unused since the 2040s. However, it was also crisscrossed on roads that could allow us to take minutes off our travel time.

After a few seconds, Beto responded. “Hope, this is Beto. Abby’s suggestion works. We can cut back toward the OCTC, and we’ll come at them from the rare.”

“This is not the planned route, Abby, and did you say there’s not recon drones up? I insist we stick to the operational planning.” Justin, who was seated in the middle seat behind me, demanded.

“People are dying, your people. We need to get there fast and in an unpredictable manner.” I said coolly, but Justin didn’t seem to want to give up on his point.

“You are under contract. A professional would follow the terms of the-“ I reached over and shut off his headset.

The minutes ticked away as we raced over the rugged roads, the lead truck kicking up blinding amounts of dust, and the whole time I to force myself not to clench my jaw in frustration. These days, Pleasant Valley is little more than a bulldozer path, with a few fires breaks the Corp of Engineers put together for the locals. It wouldn’t be fast, and the dust would be a nightmare, but we could never catch up to them in armored vehicles n matter how “Light” they were supposed to be, otherwise.

Ahead of me I could see the lead truck start to climb a steep hill, the dust flying out around the front end and tires, which was curious considering the road was totally flat. Even as my mind tried to process what was going on, the radio blared,

“IED!”

The lead Tactical Attack Vehicle, (TAV) flipped over, and Beto swerved suddenly right, trying to keep from driving into the carnage. The crews were well trained and immediately moved to tactical positions, but even as they did the gunfire started to pour in from our left.

“Action, three O’clock 80 meters!” I heard someone screamed over the mic as Jennings drove his BOXER in front of the wrecked truck to block it from incoming fire. Like the other gunners, he was already rotating to lie down suppressive fire.

“Oh hell, Boss, we’re off the road and a stuck.” Jennings called coolly. We all knew the BOXER were pigs in the sand, too heavy, not enough width and too narrow of tires meant we could be stuck just a few feet off into the sand. But stuck was better than leaving a buddy totally fucked.

The 12mm shots ripped through the air around us and cut paths in the armored haul of the TAV in front of me.

“Pitbull’s,” I groaned. The attackers were using small, fast-attack drones, like the ones I used back the lab. In a large battle they were a nuance more than a threat, but against lightly armored TAVS and Boxers, they were sufficient for the task.

I could tell see from the Muzzle flashes that at least three of them were shooting at us from around the corners of downed vehicles and for a split second I was just stunning as my ears rang and bullets flew.

Sure, I’d been shot at about as many times as I had men check out my ass. But before, I always had someone directing my fire or giving commands. Now, no one was yelling orders at me.

“Give me a status report, By the numbers Abby, Beto, Diz!” The Hope ordered coolly, and that snapped me back to reality.

Around me, the pings of bullets hitting steel and cracking the glass was abundant, but I stayed on task even as we maneuvered to where we were told.

“Hope this is Dizzy. We lost part of our lead element. Over,” she said, and I could hear gunshots cracking over her microphone.

We had been trained to speak clearly and calmly when relaying information, but the words and the tone in which they were spoken just didn’t match up. It actually raised the hairs on the back of my arms as the Beto said evenly. “Dizzy and Abby, lay down suppressive fire and keep them occupied. Cover me while I try to get to him them.” He said as if planning to take a Sunday stroll instead maneuver under fire.

We were in a herringbone formation. A TAV was pointing out in alternate sides of the road, but all of our turret gunners were faced forward firing in controlled bursts.

“Roger that Beto.” Dizzy called, and I could see the secondary top port lid pop open her and her driver of poked their rifles out and started laying down fire as well.

“I need to get a drone in the air!” I yelled and pushed Justin out of the way as my driver ran toward the back and started to deploy the drone’s launch box from the rear.

The rate of fire from our position increased dramatically and for a moment I wondered if I forgot to put in my earplugs, then remembered I had them on and headphones. It was just loud.

“Time till drone deployment. Two minutes.” An unfamiliar voice said in my head.

“What the hell? Who was that?” I yelled, earning me a confused look from my driver.

In my Heads up display provided by the new Neuro Lenses, the Zone Tactical Analytics icon was lit up, and a speaker beside it blinked as the voice responded.

“I’m your IA, the Zone Tactical Analytics Tool.” The voice was neutral, but not flat. Like a disinterested teenager, trying to sound interested.

“Okay, well Zone Tactical…” I sputtered, drawing my Pistol and loading in five drone deployment rounds.

“Zone Tactical Analytics tool,” The voice repeated.

“Screw that, I’m calling you Mogwai,” I muttered, and the icon blinked twice, then my attention was diverted as I saw Beto sprint forward like a linebacker go for the quarterback, and dive behind the overturned vehicle. Behind him, a Pitbull smoothly scaled the TAV and started to come over the top.

“Avatar designation, Mogwai accepted.” The voice said.

I aimed at the Pitbull and fired three times, my Neuro-lenses immediately locking onto the assault drone, sending all the miniature drones into its case at the same time.

Sparks flew off it, and momentarily it paused, and I knew it was targeting me.

“Target the freaking power-pack!” I screamed even as my Lenses refocused on the small square armored box.

“Target locked.” Mogwai Intoned pleasantly.

Each drone re-orientated, and one by one I slammed them into the target. Sparks flew again as the first two slammed into it, but its armor held, the third was too much and the battery box flared and exploded.

Beto rolled away just as the Pitbull rolled over stiffly on its side, then looked over at me with a mix of confusion and relief.

Raising a finger, I indicated one down and shot him a wink that I doubted he could see from the distance.

“The box is out and open, Abby!” My driver screamed.

Searching the Lenses, I found the program, and launched it with a glare.

“Launching Hawkeye drone.” Mogwai reported, and with a flood of smoke and sound the drone shot out.

The Hawkeye was mainly designed for surveillance, but the dragonfly like design made mounting a large caliber rifle on the bottom possible. While the cartridge capacity was limited, five shots they were deadly accurate shots. Shots I could place from anywhere on the battlefield I could fly to.

“Diz, this Beto. These guys are all dead. Cover me while I move back.” I heard over the radio, but my attention was focused on the drone.

“Who is the biggest threat?” I asked myself in a whisper, and suddenly a blue outline highlighted a position over a mile away.

“Abby, I believe this is the command post.” Mogwai said, and once more her interruption threw me for a loop. I almost raged at it, but then realized how useful it actually was.

“I need to know what I can hit.” I grumbled, and another target highlighted.

“Heavy Machine Gun position indicated.” Mogwai said, the voice seeming almost bored.

“Target the fucking HMG, then! Do have to explain the details on each shot?”

A reticle scoped down on the position, and I could see the man laying prone. He was nearly completely under cover, but just under the tripod was a space about four inches where he was possibly vulnerable. I decide to take a chance and locked on and fired.

The shot shook the whole Boxer, and in a puff, I could see the man now rolling limply down the incline he’d be hidden behind.

“One down!” I said into the Mic and grinned as Mogwai was already scanning for new threats.

“Beto is making his way around the far side, he should be there in a minute.” Jennings relayed, but I wasn’t sure if he was telling us, or hoping to reassure anyone living in that BOXER.

A new flurry of impacts slammed into our Boxer, as I spotted several men advancing from our right flank.

“Contact, Three O'clock infantry in the open!” I screamed.

More shots rang out as I tracked their movement a moment longer, then as an area highlighted in blue I saw a rooster tail of dust fountain up, followed up a deep. “WUMP!”

“Incoming!” Diz screamed.

Mortars dropped in on our left and I realized they weren’t just targeting us, they were leading the assault element in.

“Jennings, you got those infantry troops?” I demanded and locked in on the second sniper and fired my next round from the Hawkeye.

More rounds peppered the side of our Boxer, and one sizzled past me hot enough to smell the propellent.

“Jennings!” I roared, then unfocused from the Lenses.

At the rear of the truck Jennings was slumped against the wall. I had no idea when he’d been hit, but the shot was mortal.

“Beto, this is Abby. Jennings is down! We have infantry and incoming from our three.” I reported and changed my focus in with the drone to slowing them down.

The first man moving was clearly leading the charge, so I focus on him and fired. The round slammed into his chest and sent him flying back behind those who had been following him.

Their pace didn’t slacken, so I targeted the next one and hit him as well. The shot was lucky and show how it either caught a flat surface after hitting my target, or someone else changed their point of aim because the one behind him went down as well.

“Abby, this is St Clair, we have lost two additional TAVs, it’s time to withdraw!” Hope yelled and I realized I hadn’t heard from Diz.

“Dizzy, this is Abby, sit rep. Over.” I called, then fired the last two shots from the drone, taking down two more.

“Little busy right now,!” Came her reply. “Loading casualties with incoming mortars aren’t making it easy!”

“Abby, mortars are in targeting range.” Mogwai interjected in its placid, uncaring manner.

“I blew my load. Even if I could make that shot, I couldn’t be sure to kill enough to matter,” I rebuked.

“I wasn’t thinking about shooting it.” Mogwai said, and the sites locked onto the position.

“The Hawkeye has sufficient propellent to dispatch that zone. Shall I-“

“Yes, ram that fucker!” I screamed and struggled to disassociate my vision with the drone’s sites as it barreled into the position.

“Got em!” I celebrated, when suddenly the whole truck rocked, and I felt like we were punched by a demon.

“Abby, get out of there, they have you bracketed,” Beto order.

That was one order I had no issue accepting.

I rolled right toward the rear, but my legs once again felt like a dead weight. Whatever had hit us had tossed me around enough to disrupt my control over my frame I had, which left me totally immobile.

“I’m hit!” I screamed into the Mic as dust rolled into the back from a nearby strike.

“All Units, withdraw!” St Clair commanded, and I could hear the sound of the trucks, both that were left, revving up and accelerating away.

“Beto, this is Diz, we can’t leave you two behind!” I heard Diz scream, but the reality of what was going on weighed down on me as heavily as the frame and my failure. They were leaving us behind.

“I’m coming back. I’m coming right back with help.” Diz sobbed into the mic, but Beto wasn’t taking it.

“Dizzy, you get Hope and those casualties back to a hospital. I will get Abby, and we will ex filtrate on foot.” He ordered.

It was then I realize he didn’t know about my frame.

“Beto this is Abby. My frame is malfunctioning. Do you read me?” I said, then realized I hadn’t seen Justin in some time.

Looking out the back I could see a blur of motion, and I knew that obnoxious new armor even nearly half a mile away and realized Justin had run almost as soon as I’d crawled to the back.

“Fucking weasel! I hope the reclamation drones get you before I do,” I growled, hoping that damn fool died out there in the sands.

More gunfire and explosions shattered the world around me and once more I found myself tossed like a rag doll into the air, only to be slammed back down by that bitch known as gravity.

Pain coursed through me and I knew I had a chance if I could just get out of the frame. “Not now,” I said, but my mind was clouded.

“Do you have orders, Abby?” The AI asked, but what could she do? “You’re not even real, you're just an IA running algorithms. I huffed and reached down to unhook my battery pack and unlock the frame’s connections.

“I can do more than that.” The AI, said, her tone changed, more human and perhaps a little miffed.

“Frame emergency releases: active”

My frame suddenly shuddered, and the battery came loose in my hands, and I tossed it aside. The knee and ankle latches popped and the whole unit slid free easier than the prom queen’s dress on prom night.

“What just-,” I sputtered in bewilderment, then pain ran like lightening down my leg.

“Now crawl Abby,” The voice encouraged.

Prompted, I rolled on my stomach and used my elbows and forearms to crawl toward the back side of the truck.

More rounds shattered off the surrounding armor, but the bursting bullets cast fragments everywhere, and something tugged violently at my leg.

“Oh, no.” I gasped and looked down to where my limp leg now had a rugged hole in the pant leg, and as I watched crimson blood start to leak out.

I couldn’t feel the damage that was killing me. Pulling myself forward across the dust covered floor, I tried to keep my breathing under control, and head cool. I’d see those kinds of bleeds before. they were never good.

“Beto, this is Abby. I need help,” I croaked.

“Just keep moving Abby,” Mogwai, encouraged and inch by inch I pulled myself forward, first by my elbows and forearms, then fingertips.

I saw in a movie a guy got shot in the leg and the medic said his muscle would contract around the vessel and slow the bleeding if the artery wasn’t too high up. Mine wasn’t by then my muscles weren’t going to be contracting any time soon. My blood just freely flowing out.

Distantly, more rounds impacted the truck, but if any more broke apart and got me, I could no longer tell. There was a cold shiver inside me that was growing, and a fear that grew by the moment. I was dying.

A searing pain ripped through my spin and down my legs.

“I’m on fire,” I screamed as each nerve and synapse blazed with white hot agony the likes I’d never known. My toes drummed on the steel floor, like a seizure that only convulsed half my body. Panic pumped through me and the spike of fear of that agonizing death pushed me to move.

“The vessel’s almost closed, I got you Abby!” A memory of a voice said, no it was Mogwai’s wasn’t it? Why did it sound like Zita?

“Oh, this is no good! This is seriously no good!” Zita whimpered, and in my mind, she was there beside me, a child, or near child, staring down at my leg. Then squeezing her eyes tightly shut as if willing me to live.

“Just hold on Abby, please!” I heard her say, and another flare scorched by nerves, but it wasn’t just the pain from my body that was wracking me. I could see Zita besides her cherub like smile, a smile that reminded me of her father. She looked sad, concerned, but there was hope as well.

“I can’t save you!” I screamed. “Just let me die!”

Guilt and pain had become my world, but in her eyes, I could see something, something I couldn’t identify. Was that sympathy?

A sob escaped me, but like a snot bubble bursting I let go, and faded into oblivion.