THIRTY-NINE
The trailing Mercedes goes off the road first, turning sharply and plowing through a storefront on the left side of the road. As I run past, I don't spot the Arcadian who had been on the roof. He must have been launched inside the store as the vehicle came to a sudden halt, or he's part of the jumble of masonry piled atop the wrecked car.
The penultimate Mercedes waggles back and forth, and manages to dislodge the Arcadian clinging to it. The car corrects its course and speeds after the remaining pair. The Arcadian who was thrown off is recovering from his unsightly dismount as I reach him. I put two bullets in the back of his masked head before he can find his assault rifle on the strap around his torso. I strip the rifle from him, as well as the spare magazines, and then shoot him twice in the chest to make sure he stays down.
An explosion draws my attention back to the road. Up ahead, there's an open space—a promenade or plaza of some sort—and in the middle there is a round turret-like building. Atop it is a tall statue of an Incan man with a long robe and a tall staff. Pachacutec—the Incan ruler who built an empire. Somewhere near the turret, something has blown up. I can't tell if it is one of the remaining Mercedes or another car.
I'm certainly not going to find out by standing in the middle of the street with my mouth open. I sprint toward the promenade, trying not to listen to the part of my brain that is panicked about what I'm going to find in the burning wreckage.
The road from the hotel spills out into a wide boulevard that combines with several other roads into a promenade that flows around a quartered field of overly green grass. The tower rises from the center of the field, and it is several stories tall. Tiny windows along the surface suggest that it is hollow—a tourist destination, wherein they can climb up to the same height as the towering figure and get a view of the city from his perspective.
Traffic has come to a standstill, a confusion of wrecked and stopped vehicles. I can see the burning car now and it's a sedan of some kind; it's not one of the remaining Mercedes. Gunfire and screams and the occasional bleat of a horn are the cacophony that my damaged hearing is starting to parse again. Along with the whup-whup sound of the helicopter. It's on the far side of the tower, hovering over the boulevard.
I make my way through the traffic jam, dodging angry and shocked people who are milling about. Most of the sensible ones have already fled; those remaining are still trying to figure out what happened or are too incensed by the stupidity of their minor fender bender to take stock of the bigger picture. I feel like a steel ball in a Japanese parlor game, bouncing from pin to pin as I try to make my way to the bottom of the pachinko board.
I spot one of the Mercedes. The doors are open, and there's blood along the passenger side door, but no sign of the mercenaries.
Another explosion rocks the street, and for a few moments, there is consensus among the crowds: move away from the fire and smoke. I fight my way through the crowd, like a salmon struggling to leap upstream. Gunfire rattles in the aftermath of the blast, and I reorient myself toward the fighting.
Another Mercedes is off to my left, stuck in a morass of smaller vehicles; The mercenaries are dug in around it, sniping at the Arcadians who are circling at a safe distance. The lead Mercedes has been driven into the grass near the tower, and all of its doors are hanging open. There's a cluster of people jockeying around the base of the tower, trying to funnel through the single door.
I glance at the hovering helicopter.
Are they going to try for a pick-up from the top of the tower?
One of the Arcadians gets a little too bold, and a pair of mercenaries catch him in a crossfire. He does an ugly dance, his body jerking from the rounds, and almost immediately, he starts shrieking and clawing at his own flesh.
Weed killer rounds.
Escobar hasn't figured out a counteragent yet. This fight isn't as one-sided as it looks.
A pair of Arcadians spot me as I weave through the traffic jam, and I gauge whether I have the time to deal with them. One opens fire with his assault rifle, and the windows of a nearby sedan star up as the bullets sing around me. I duck behind the next car and return fire, aiming more for likely gas tanks in the nearby cars than either of the two Arcadians. A black Lexus goes up, spewing smoke and fire in a screen between the Arcadians and me, making it easy for me to drop all pretense and sprint for the tower.
The helicopter is rising, getting into position for its approach.
I stop at the first Mercedes. Secutores mercenaries are sprawled on the ground near the front of the vehicle, dead from blunt force trauma and broken necks. I'm carrying one of the Arcadian assault rifles—a commando version of the SIG SG 550—and I trade it for a Secutores MP7. I grab extra magazines from the dead mercs, noting the green stripe along the side of the magazine. Specialized rounds. Just what I need for Arcadian hunting.
I hear one of them coming across the grass, and before I can get my newly acquired gun lined up, the Arcadian slams into me. We collide with the Mercedes, and after avoiding his headbutt, I drop the stubby stock of my weapon down on his forearm as he tries to stab me with a long knife. I'm only partially successful in blocking his attack as I feel the knife slide off a rib. It's a flesh wound. It'll bleed a lot but it won't slow me down too much.
He whips his arm out from beneath the butt of my rifle and drives the knife at my throat. He's inside my reach and I've still got one hand on the MP7. I grab with my left hand, trying to get my arm up, but his knife catches me at the base of my neck, just inside my collarbone. I get a grip on his jacket and yank him forward, my teeth sinking into his throat. He twists the knife, trying to open me up all the way to the base of my skull.
I bite down, and his blood fills my mouth.
Most Arcadians have never been bitten. They don't understand what it feels like. There's more to drinking blood than the simple physiological and nutritional effects; there's an undeniable psychological response as well—both from the drinker and the one being drunk from. The shock is a moment of primal dominance. Your life could end in the next few moments or it could go on forever, but that decision is no longer yours. For most humans, the shock is fleeting. For all their bluster and efforts to forestall decay, there will come a moment when they are no longer in control. Some are fierce and fight it strenuously, but most—after a second of surprise—sink into a fugue of resigned acceptance.
The Arcadian keeps sawing at my neck, thinking he has time. Not aware that I own him.
His blood is thick, like fresh sap from a maple tree, and it has a surprisingly acrid chemical taste, but it flows just as readily as human blood. And its effect on me is the same. I let go of his jacket and grab his right wrist, grinding the bones as I squeeze. He finally realizes something is wrong and lets go of his knife, but I'm already bending him back. I twist, throwing him against the side of the car. He tries to beat at my head with his left arm, but I shake my head furiously, letting my teeth savage his throat. There's blood everywhere and my face is hot and sticky with it as I gnaw deeper. He gurgles, spitting blood, and his efforts to push me away are feeble, like the flapping hand of a newborn child.
I drain him until his heartbeat starts to flutter. Pulling away from his ravaged throat, I yank the knife out of my neck. The pain makes me howl, and I'm shaking with adrenaline as I plunge the knife into his chest. He stares at me glassy-eyed, his last breath bubbling out through the ruin of his throat.
I stagger away from the car, pressing my hand over the wound in my neck. Close, I will my flesh. It would be ironic to pass out from blood loss now, wouldn't it? I press harder, my fingers slick. I don't need Mother or the warm darkness of the humus. I can do this myself. I can protect myself.
The flow tapers off, and when I move my hand away, there's no sudden spurt of fresh blood. The skin around my collarbone itches fiercely, and I channel a burning desire to scratch into running instead.
The helicopter is moving toward the tower. Trailing beneath it is a long cable with a heavy hook assembly.
I still have to get that door open at the base of the tower, and then climb the stairs inside. I have no idea how many Arcadians are waiting for me. It'll take too long.
The tower is made from rough bricks. Not rough enough that a sane climber would attempt to ascend the face of the tower. But there are enough windows that someone who was more physically capable than the average rock climber might be able to make the climb.
I sling the MP7 around to my back, getting it out of the way. As the helicopter moves into position over the tower, I make a running leap. My hands frantically grab at the bricks, trying to find enough purchase to keep me from tumbling back to the ground.
The first window is only a few meters higher. If I can get a good grip, I can launch myself to the sill. My left hand catches on a nub of rock; my feet scrabble against the brick.
I'm not falling. Not yet.