Element Zero

I watched them as the wind blew over them. None of them blinked while they were blasted with snow. The closest one’s eyes just kept up that slight jitter as the bloodstained shirt flapped around his bony, scabby body.

Roger that.

I took the bike past them and back to the sidewalk. There was more blood on the snow just ahead. A hand, short a little finger, poked out from under a car. There was a big bite mark in the meat of the thumb.

Nico was still offline. I hated talking to that asshole Van Offo, but he was my next-best bet. I tried his line, and he picked up.

Van Offo here.

It’s Flax.

Miss Flax. I was going to contact you.

I didn’t like the sound of that. I hated him, and he knew it. We had only one thing in common.

Where’s Nico?

He’s safe.

My fist tightened on the throttle. I wasn’t in the mood for that twerp’s bullshit runaround.

I didn’t ask if he was safe. I asked where he was.

He’s at the VA hospital—that’s what I was going to—

What happened?

Don’t worry. He’s alive.

I asked what the fuck happened to him.

I can’t give you any more details than that right now. I’m waiting to hear myself—

Where the hell were you during all this?

I was being shot. We were attacked while following a lead. He saved my life.

“Goddamn it!”

I kicked the car next to me and the taillight crunched under the heel of my boot.

I don’t care about your life, you motherfucker!

I know.

What hospital?

The streets are blocked. You won’t get there. Listen to me, Cal—

Fuck you.

I cut the connection.

Singh, I’m on my way but I need your help.

What do you need?

Work your mojo and find out what hospital Agent Nico Wachalowski is checked into. Find out his status. I want to know everything.

You got it, Cal.

I heard a voice shriek then, just over the idling engine. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone. Wind blew snow across the street, and when it died down, I heard it again.

Thanks, Singh.

Whoever it was, they were close. I cut the engine and listened. It was hard to make anything out over the wind, but it was definitely a person.

“Hello?” I called. I looked around for any movement. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

A voice called back. I couldn’t make the words out, but it came from a girl.

I turned on a thermal filter and swept the area. Up ahead, in the middle of the cold, I saw a red-orange glow from the rear of the crashed armored truck.

I closed in and parked the bike ten feet away. The truck was unmarked and painted black. The front end had smashed through the brick face and the doors hung open. The rear plate was marked with the letters MIL.

Military vehicle. I climbed off the bike and stepped closer. There was an emblem in the corner of the back window.

STILLWELL CORPS. It was one of ours.

I looked around the side and saw a revivor up front, standing frozen. It still had the driver by the wrists, blood smeared down the front of its face. The driver hung there by his arms, limp. His head lolled, blood running down over his face. His throat had been torn open, and the snow at their feet was red.

“Hello?” a voice called from the back of the truck. It was female, with some kind of accent. “Who’s there?”

I grabbed the handle to the back door and pulled, but it was locked.

“I’m not here to hurt you. Come on, open up!” I said. I thumped the door with my fist.

“Who are you?” the voice asked from inside. The accent was Russian, maybe. I looked through the bulletproof glass and caught a glimpse of what looked like a kid.

“I’m not dead. How’s that? Open the damn door.”

I heard the bolt let go, and pulled the door open. When I did, a rank smell blew out.

There was a girl back there, some street teen with a dirty face and ratty hair. She wasn’t alone.

The back of the truck was filled with bodies. They were all naked, and stacked along the sides in metal trays. The crash had thrown them so that arms and legs hung over the sides. Blue fingers and toes stuck out in the air. A couple had spilled out onto the floor, and one’s neck had been slashed on a sharp edge of the rack, and blood covered the floor. The girl knelt on the floor, her knees and hands red.

“Get me out of here,” she said. Her hands shook.

The whole back smelled like BO and decomp. The bodies were scrawny and scabby. They had to be thirds, people they’d pulled off the streets.

“Please …get me out of here …”

All the way back, a window looked into the cab. The dash and the windshield were splashed with blood. On the seat was an electronic manifest, the screen spattered with red.

This is the retrieval team. They were here to pick up the carriers I’d tagged.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“I don’t know …everyone just …fell down. When they got back up …”

“How’d you get in here?”

“It was already crashed. Men with guns got out.”

“What men?”

“Men in uniform. They tried to hold them, the dead ones, off, but there were too many. They took them.”

There were some footprints in the snow behind the truck. Some blood, and shell casings too. Except for the driver, though, there were no bodies.

“Took them where?”

She shook her head.

“Okay, I get it.” Her eyes were wide and she shook, still kneeling down in the blood. “Come on, get out of there.”

“Are they …?”

“Those things in there with you could still get back up,” I said. “ Let’s go.”

She crawled out in a hurry and stuck near me.

“We’re getting out of here. What’s your name?”

“Vika.”

“You’ll be okay, Vika. Follow me.”

I took her back to the bike and she got on behind me. She put her arms around my waist and laced her fingers as I kick-started the engine.

“Hold on,” I said.

She squeezed tighter as the rear tire kicked up snow and I took us through the wreckage.

Zoe Ott—Main Drag