Nigel couldn’t keep his eyes open. It had been over forty-eight hours since he’d slept, and he was hallucinating.

“Stay frosty, boy!” Dahlia said.

“Nigel, we are close. One more gate and you’ll be there,” a familiar female voice said.

He looked in the voice’s direction and could not believe his eyes. It was Jet. His spirits soared.

“Just a little longer, then we can be together.”

Nigel smiled as the last defense mechanism of the virtual vault holding hordes of crypto treasure appeared.

“That’s it. You’ve done it,” Dahlia said.

Nigel glanced in her direction as the 9mm Beretta discharged. He didn’t feel pain, not at first. The searing truth enveloped him as a mask of pain burned his flesh. His vision blurred.

The pain—it’s gone.

Blackness . . .

Twenty-four hours earlier

Nigel awoke with a start. Dahlia was driving, and from the looks of it, they were leaving Westchester. For a town so close to New York, it was quaint and had a small-town feel to it. He remembered his father bringing him to a similar town years ago. He had promised Nigel that he would get to meet his grandfather. The day had ended in disappointment, like every other outing he’d had with his father. Rick, Nigel’s father, dropped by a past girlfriend’s house. They set him up in front of the television and disappeared. By the time Rick was finished with whatever they were doing, Nigel was at the girlfriend’s computer, blissfully hacking away.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the girlfriend asked.

“Your email had a weak password. I changed it along with the rest of your passwords. Here is the list of your more secure login information.”

Nigel gave a legal-size notepad to his father’s ex-girlfriend. It was filled with a series of alphanumeric codes, at least thirty characters in length.

“It will take me forever to remember all of this. How did you know how to get into my other accounts, anyway?”

Nigel grinned widely. He loved helping people.

“The wheel on the edge of the desk contains the birthdays for all your family. I figured you would use your mother’s birthday, since it is easy to remember. But you shouldn’t—”

“You little bastard,” the girlfriend said as she pushed Nigel out of the way.

He tumbled to the floor, his hand went numb, then a bolt of pain shot through his arm. Nigel cried. He was eight and had just wanted to help. Later, his mother threw Rick out of the house, and Nigel didn’t see him again until he was seventeen. Ralphie had developed a relationship with the man, but Nigel vowed that he would never talk to his father again.

I’m still angry at him. But he is still my dad.

On a whim, Nigel called his father. He picked up on the second ring.

“What do you want?” a man’s voice said.

Nigel didn’t recognize the person on the other end of the phone.

“Is this Rick Watson?”

A menacing chuckle emitted from the phone.

“Yes, Rick is inside this meat sack. He doesn’t want anything to do with its offspring. Now be gone with you.”

Nigel thought he could hear the laughter of a woman in the background.

Has my father gone insane?

Blanka gave Nigel’s hand a squeeze as Dahlia entered the West Side Highway in Manhattan. Nigel squinted as the sun’s rays glistened over the Hudson River.

“Do you have a location on your father?” Dahlia asked.

“Yes, I was able to pinpoint his location using metadata from the call I just made. We are about eight blocks away. Try to find a parking spot around the Broadway and Ninety-First Street,” Nigel said.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I will park where I can.”

Dahlia turned onto Broadway. People ran in every direction, many with pets and other precious items. An enormous man picked up a sizable trash barrel and threw it at the car. The windshield cracked as the rubbish bin came into contact with it. Dahlia responded by smashing the vehicle into the man. He bounced off the car and was thrown into the street. A pickup truck loaded with men with shaved heads hit the brakes. The truck skidded, and the driver lost control and fishtailed into an ox of a man. Nigel closed his eyes.

“These people have lost their minds,” Blanka said.

“They’ve had assistance with that,” Dahlia said, pointing up.

A drone with dual canisters hovered over the nearby intersection.

“What’s that?” Nigel asked.

Dahlia put the car in gear and released the trunk. Moments later, she threw gas masks at everyone.

“Put these on. Before it’s too late.”

The drone released a green gas that sprayed in every conceivable direction.

“There’s no breeze, so the gas is not dispersing,” Vedrana said.

Dahlia started firing in the drone’s direction. Bullets ricocheted off its sleek metal surface.

“The dammed thing is armored.”

The mask obscured Nigel’s visibility, but he could see that the drone was moving in their direction.

The teenaged assassins adjusted their masks as they exited the vehicle. Nigel followed. Dahlia removed a gigantic machine gun and started peppering the drone. One of the gas canisters exploded, and the drone crashed onto the sidewalk nearby. A shabby-looking man snatched the cylinder and ran away with it. He laughed as he waved the gas tank around like a toy.

“Dun de buttin cheek,” the man said as he danced around.

This guy has lost it.

“Nigel, is that you?” a female voice called out.

Nigel followed the voice. It was Treeka, the female cyborg that he helped just days earlier. Gas filled the street as other drones hovered over Nigel’s companions. The flying machines sprayed more gas.

“We need to get out of here now. I know a way to shelter,” Treeka said.

“I will cover you,” Dahlia said.

Nigel followed Treeka through a maze of burning trash, cars, and other debris. Moments later, Nigel found himself in a dark corridor.

“You can take your mask off. There are no signs of the toxin here,” Treeka said.

“How do you know that? Why isn’t the gas affecting you?”

“It doesn’t affect cyborgs.”

“Where are we?”

“This leads to the underground.”

“To the doctor?” Nigel asked.

Treeka shot him a look. “How do you know—”

“He has my father.”

Treeka gave Nigel a look of regret.

“If he was down there, he’s not now.”

“What are you talking about? I tracked him here.”

“My actions caused the patients—the prisoners—to be set free.”

“It’s not safe. We should leave—” An enormous fireball interrupted Treeka. “No!” Her positioning made it so that she took a direct hit, shielding the others.

“Well, hello there. I’m Luke and I’m your concierge,” the man said in a British accent.

The man threw a punch toward Nigel, who froze at the sight of the monstrosity before him. The man was in military fatigues, which were ripped in many places. His bald head reminded Nigel of a boxer. His normal-sized fist suddenly expanded into something like an exaggerated-looking mallet he’d seen from old cartoons. Nigel flinched as the punch landed, which catapulted him to the floor in an instant. His vision blurred before it faded. He looked forward to the bleak nothingness that was sure to follow. The pain was minimal, and that made him happy.

Nigel opened his eyes. Dahlia was swerving, driving on the sidewalk and barely missing pedestrians. Someone screamed in the rear of the vehicle. He turned and gasped as the bloody mess coming from Eva expanded. Nigel was thrown into the window from the sudden, erratic movement of the car. A sense of déjà vu set in as his vision faded.

Nigel gazed out of the apartment window overlooking Central Park West. He admired the panoramic view of the Upper West Side. Billows of green-and-black smoke created a toxic cloud that hovered over Manhattan like a hunter’s dirty jacket. Nigel turned on the television in the penthouse for an update.

I hate watching TV news; I wish my phone still worked.

“The National Guard has been called in. All five of New York’s boroughs are now declared disaster areas. Scientists are seeking to determine the source of the toxin, and the soldiers are struggling to keep order on Manhattan Island. Experts agree that the source is from deep underground. Hundreds of feet below the subway system,” a female news anchor said.

The fall of society is nigh . . . and it’s my fault.

Nigel made a move to shut off the television, but the imagery of green steam pluming from heating vents and lime-green smoke from chimneys gave him pause. Nigel realized that the gas was being integrated into society. People weren't dying from the gas; their bodies were taking it in just fine. But the neurological effects produced deadly results. Reports of people jumping in front of trains or off buildings cut Nigel like a dull knife. Not as much pain at first, but the result was slow and agonizing.

“Nigel, why don’t you be a good boy and fetch me that bone saw,” a man’s voice said.

Where did he come from? I must be dreaming.

He followed the speech. To Nigel’s dismay, the apartment had been turned into a makeshift operating room. A man dressed in doctor scrubs operated on someone. Blood dripped from the doctor’s mask as he continued with the operation. Nigel’s eyes gazed upon a tray with several surgical instruments. Picks, saws, and other instruments of pain lay on the table before him. He found a nasty-looking device with a round blade. He watched himself hand the device to the doctor, who turned on the saw. A whirring noise emitted from the instrument, and with the drone of the saw, a woman screamed. Nigel directed his attention to the pained cry. He pulled back a green sheet and his breath caught as he gazed upon the woman. It was Jet.

“Nige, how could you?” she said, crying.

He did not see any blood, just body parts. As the doctor sliced a limb away, instead of blood, a green smoke emanated from the stump. Nigel closed his eyes, but the doctor’s laughter and Jet’s screams wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest.

What have I done? I’m going to make this right, even if it kills me! I promise.