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The Metal Witch of New England by Erin Tyler "...Are you even alive in there?" Those were the first words The Mistress ever said to me, in the darkness of her junk-lab. I had been trapped in an immobile robotic body, with my 435-plus-year-old brain encased and kept alive in a cloudy plastic bubble. I had no choice but to respond with a slow nod. That had made her laugh. The Mistress' laugh was a curious one: it would start with something that didn't really sound like a laugh, but rather like a mild interest, the same kind of "huh" people make when they mean to say, "Is that a fact, I didn't know that." From there, it built into a somewhat involuntary chuckle, like, "Oh yeah, that's clever." Then, it'd come round a wide bend with a paroxysm of cackling, a hallmark of any good madman (or madwoman, as the case may be). In the caverns of her lonely tower, it could echo throughout the halls. As her laughter calmed, she had turned and sauntered out. "Sucks to be you, then," is how she had closed it, and that was it. It did suck to be me; indeed, it sucked big-time. After my fear subsided, I felt pissed. Is that all she has to say, I thought. Sucks to be me?! Well, fuck her!! I wish I had been able to see everything else that had happened that night. I mean, it's not like her casual cruelty ever really led to anything. I abandoned all whims of revenge shortly after I escaped the junk-lab. Aside from being unable to live without her (and I mean that in a literal sense, with an understanding of what the word "literal" is supposed to mean), I'm just not that bloodthirsty. Being a dick shouldn't be a death sentence. All I really wanted was an apology. But like I said, I wish I had been able to see everything else that happened that night, because I didn't see what happened after that. I could bring up some of the stuff I've told you about already, but I've been repeating myself way too much. I'll just tell you what happened immediately afterward, outside the junk-lab, instead. The Mistress chuckled and hooted a little as she walked down the hall toward her bedroom. Then, she slowed down. Her chuckling and hooting quieted, until she was only breathing. Then, she stopped. The Mistress stood still there, in her dark home, alone. Natsuko was somewhere else, it doesn't matter. She looked down toward the floor and wavered a bit. Ever so slowly, she tilted to the right, leaning a few inches that way until she came to a rest against the wall. With one hand tucked in a pocket, she reached up with the other, under her goggles, and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "...Ahhhh...," she breathed, "shit..." It was like a wall of fire, smoke, and thunder, just on the opposite side of Grant's Gate, a clamor so loud it drowned all other noises in Parkside. BOOM-BABOOMBOOMBOOM went the gate as it shook violently against the clamps that valiantly held it shut. They were failing, though; they were being pulled out of their own bolts, bit by bit. The gate shook like a ship in a storm, and soon the clamps wouldn't be holding anything at all. It was only a matter of time. It had seemed foolish to Alan when his friends and neighbors tried to get the Lane Plan robots to come back to life on their own. They knew what he knew about these creations, and he knew nothing, aside from the facts that Brooke made them and I brought them to life. As the minutes passed, however, he began fiddling with them himself. He touched a robot. It did nothing. He pushed it. It did nothing. He considered shoving it, but having witnessed dozens of other people try the exact same thing without results, he decided against it. He opened its panel and stared within its chest. "Power," read one button. He wanted to give it power, yes, the power to beat the R.U.S.A. and save his town. He wondered if "Power" is what that did. He threw caution to the wind and pushed "Power." It did nothing. The rest of the buttons might as well have been written in Gaelic, for all the sense they made to him. He swore and slapped the door shut, even as others tried button-mashing similar 'bots. "Ahh shit did I make a mistake," he whispered. I'm not sure whether he meant it to be a question or a statement. I'm not sure he knew, either. "...Junior," he said more clearly. "...Junior?!" "Right here," Junior called out. He and his men were repairing and loading his gun cache as fast as they could. Quick fixes were being made on the fly as magazines were swapped and filched between them. "What, whh... what're you-" "-Gonna kill as many of those motherfuckers as I can," Junior stated, not taking his eyes of the procession of guns that were whipping to him, then past him. "Ain't that right!!" he barked. "Oo-rah!!" his men barked back like Marines. "Fuckin' A!!" Junior snapped, with all seriousness. "Ehh... good, good..." Alan didn't know what to do with his hands -- he rubbed and kneaded them. He looked down at the guns. When a small one passed by, he seized it, checked it, made sure it was loaded, then passed it on. Wordlessly, Junior took over the large guns and let Alan handle the small ones. Alan's attention was only half-focused on the weapons, though. He was also aware of the people fleeing to places that offered no safety. Alan wasn't going anywhere, but... "She's comin' back," Junior said when Alan was sure he wasn't paying attention. For a second, Alan looked confused. Junior just jerked his head to the side, toward Sky Tower. "Y'think?" Alan warbled. "Of course," Junior snorted. "She's been too damn stupid to leave before now. She's not goin' anywhere." "She's not stupid." "Says you." Junior finished putting together an assault rifle and swapped with a deputy. "...Yeah." Alan turned his head up toward Sky Tower. BOOM-BABOOM- BOOM. "Yeah, let's hope..." ...So... what. Two words. So many meanings. I didn't like any of them. I was frozen. I was gripping The Mistress by the shoulders. She was hog-tied in front of me, with that damnable LP robot-controlling laptop between us. She refused to unblock them. She refused to let them save us. The only reason she gave, beyond petty desire to hold onto property she was going to throw away anyway... ...Was "So what." She was enraged. She was shaking. I was...well, I told you already: I was frozen. "...So...?" I uttered. "Let go of me, you piece of shit!!" she yelled, trying to shrug me off. I removed my hands. "...So what? What, so what?" Pause. "I mean... what do you mean-" "-Untie me now, you shitstain!!" "Stop!!" I blurted. "Just... st-stop!! What is so what?!" She refused to respond. "What did you mean by 'so what'?!" Nothing. "What does it mean?!" "It means so!! What!! Do you want a dictionary?!" I stood up. "I told you," I said with urgency, "you were going to die." Pause. "'So what' is not a response to that!!" She was still struggling. I dropped to my knees and grabbed her by the wrists. I admit, I was... well, angry, yes, and frustrated. And terrified. "Stop it!!" I shouted. "Tell me what you meant!! Tell me what you meant by 'so what'!!" The Mistress stopped and glowered at me. I glowered right back at her. She stopped struggling. The Mistress let out a bitter little puff. "...You... you're just so fucking..." She sat there, saying nothing for a few seconds, just breathing. "So goddamn... naive... fuck..." "I want to know what you meant," I said levelly. "What do you think?" "...I don't know." She sneered. "Bull." I hesitated. "I'm not gonna put words in your mouth, Mistress." She shook her head. "...Ugh..." I got off my knees and into a crouch. "...What's your name?" I asked. She said nothing. "I'd tell you mine if I knew. I don't remember anything before I woke up here." She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye; I had piqued her interest. "Please? I've been living with you for so long. I just... I wanna know your real name." She said nothing. Then, after a few seconds, "Hayley." Hayley. "...Hayley Johnston," she sighed. Hayley Johnston. The Fourth Metal Witch of New England, the current Metal Mistress, "The Mistress," my Mistress... ...Hayley Johnston. I never would have guessed. I mean... Hayley? Not that it's a bad name, but I would have guessed... I dunno, something more conservative? She's North America's foremost expert on robotics, after all (23!!). Jennifer, maybe, or Erin, or Christine... I dunno. I guess those sound a little made-up. Johnston, I could believe, or Johnson, or Johnsen. Those are pretty common, right? Hayley. "...Hayley," I said. She didn't look at me. "What's going on, Hayley?" Her mouth twitched a little. She looked distant. "...Look around you," she muttered. I did. There was Mistress Hayley, and next to us was the Miki-chan robot, and on the floor nearby was Miki-chan's unpowered brain. There were computers behind Mistress Hayley. There was a worktable next to me, to which the Miki-chan robot was bolted, and stacks of old, burnt- out servers behind me. And beyond that, piles and piles of- "Junk," Mistress Hayley said. "All of this, this whole room... fuck, this whole floor, whole building... 's all junk." Her eyes meandered a bit. She didn't sound calmer; rather, she sounded tired. "All of it, every square inch." "...Ah-" I gaped for a second, then shrugged. "S-so?" Mistress Hayley didn't seem to be paying any attention to me; she was somewhere else in her head, for the moment. "Half of it's been here since Candace put this place together. Thirty-eight years... long time to be salvaging..." She paused. "Brooke accumulated most of the rest. She was a real workhorse. Sheila didn't... bring in much..." Pause. A long pause. "Now... just... look at it," she sighed. "This is... this is it. This is all the... the crap... that I'm supposed to watch over." She looked up at me. She didn't look mad. "Y'know... you could point at... anything... in here, and I can tell you what it does, or... did..." She looked down. "Or what it's supposed to do..." She said nothing. ...There was no sound, until she took a quick, deep breath. "It's all... valuable, they say. The order." She shook her head. "'S not. It's all a..." She was breathing through her nose as she stared down at the floor. But she wasn't really looking at the floor. She closed her eyes... "Bunch'a sh-shit..." She made a sound: something soft and low. Her head dipped. "...H-" I started. "H-hey, whoa..." Her head dipped lower. Her long hair fell over her face. I couldn't see her... but I could hear her. The moan became a little louder, a little longer. "Hey." Things were getting weird. I felt wary -- is this some kind of trick, I thought. I hadn't known The Mistress to really pull tricks, though. Tricks involve subtlety, and if I've ever given the impression that The Mistress was subtle, then... ... ...W-well, she's not. Regardless, I was hesitant. I cautiously shuffled in close. I stretched out one arm a little -- just a little -- paused, then brushed her hair back a little -- just a little -- from her face. ... ...She was crying. "Ng!" she bawled, quickly slapping my hand away. "Hayley, what-?!" "Guh-get the fug away from me!!" she sobbed. "What?! I-I don't-" "-I'm... shit." ... ...That threw me. "Whoa, okay, hold on, I never said..." She pulled her knees up to her head. "Ahh, h-hold on, I-I just, I-I-" She was crying like a child. I could hear the sounds of blasting in the distance. "...Wait, you're... w-what?!" "I'm shit!!" she spat. "I'm a loser!!" I had heard that. Oh, how I heard that. "Wh-whoa!! Hold up!! No!! You're not a-a-a loser!! I never called you a loser!! I never even thought you were a loser!!" "D-don't fl-flatter yourself," she bemoaned. "Ah! Wh-?!" I tried to get what was going on there straight. "Y-uh, wha-?! I never said... but you..." ...And then it hit me. "Oh... Jesus Christ!! No!! No, Hayley, you are not a loser!! Don't you dare call yourself that!!" She was still sobbing. "Didn't you hear me?! I said-" I grabbed her head and forced her hair back. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and even as she cried out and struggled against me, I held fast. "You are not a loser, goddammit!!" I yelled. "Yes, I am!! I'm-" She shoved her bound wrists and feet between us and pushed me off. "I'm fucking pathetic!!" I landed on my ass. "You stop saying that right now!!" I growled as I stood up. "That is not true!!" "Look at me!" She held up her wrists and shook them. "Look at me!!" I looked at her. I glared at her. I tore off the cord binding her wrists. She looked at them... ...And didn't move an inch. I tore the cord off her ankles for good measure, but nothing happened. I wanted her to tackle me, but she didn't. I wanted her to fight me, but she didn't. She just sat there, staring at the floor and sobbing. "Ohhhhhhh, whaaaat?!" I screamed. "God... dammit!! No!! No!! This is complete bullshit!! You are not a loser!! You... you!! You're the Metal Witch of New England!! Robot-building, demon-summoning badass!! You're not a loser, goddammit!!" She was a girl, sitting on the floor, crying. "Daaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!! I didn't sit in a fucking freezer for four centuries just to watch you kill yourself!!" She was a girl, sitting on the floor, crying. I seized her by the shoulders. "Stop it!! You are not a loser!! You're Hayley Johnston!! The Metal Witch-!!" She was a girl, sitting on the floor, crying. "-Of... New England...!" She was a girl. ... ...I had nothing else to say. I plopped my butt onto the floor in front of her. With a loud blast and a snap of metal breaking, the top of Grant's Gate blew off. Alan, Junior, the ABCs, and I had stood atop it just the other day. The Secret Service's barrage blasted it off the rest of the gate, and it came crashing into town. The Secret Service was heard cheering from the other side, even though the gate was still too high to surmount. The Parksiders were everywhere in town: among the robots, trying to get them working; boarding up their homes; arming themselves; hiding themselves. "Sir, please come down!!" one of President Bellows' lieutenants begged. "You're a target!!" The president was standing tall and statuesque as he patiently waited for the wall in front of him -- behind the explosive fire he was launching against it -- to fall. He was far enough away from it to be safe from the smoke and flames, but he could barely hear over the cacophony. "...Hm?" he inquired when he glanced down and saw his underling. "You're-a-target-sir!!" the lieutenant shouted over the din (even though the president really wasn't a target due to all of the smoke). The president took a knee to get closer. "It's dangerous up there, sir!! Please... go to the back!!" "...Back?" the president asked, unsure what he was being asked. "Yes!! Back!!" The soldier pointed down the road. The president shook his head. "No! We just got here!" "No... sir!! It-is-dangerous!!" The president was still confused. "The Lord is on our side! We're never in danger!" "Sir...!!" The lieutenant was feeling pretty distraught. "You could get shot!!" "What?" "Shot!!" "What shot? Has someone been shot?" "You!!" The president grinned and chuckled. "I haven't been shot!" "They could start shooting!!" "Start shooting?" The soldier in the window above the president turned to his companion with the sniper rifle. "He gave the order!! Start shooting!!" "...Wait," the sniper croaked, still a little woozy from the funny little pipe he had been given that blew the nice-smelling smoke, "aren't we... supposed to, um-" "-Fire, dammit!!" The soldier threw a shoe at the sniper's head. "Fire!! Fire!!" The first bullet struck a deputy in the shoulder. He had been standing next to Junior, handing him a gun, when he was knocked off his feet and into the dirt. He survived by inches, thanks to his bullet-proof vest. Junior looked down at his stunned deputy in the dirt. His head snapped forward, his eyes locked on a point in front of him. A wicked grin (or maybe, more likely, a snarl) flashed across his face. He stood up in a fraction of a second, scooping up a rifle along the way. "I got him!" the sniper said, peering through his scope. "I got the bad-" I imagine that was the last thing he said before the bullet blew out his skull. "Oh, shit!!" cried another spotter in another building to another sniper. "Open fire!! Open fire!!" "Lock and load!!" Junior barked to his handful of deputies. His guys were decked out in leather pants, vests, and cowboy hats. The youngest was 16, and the oldest had trained alongside Junior. "Any of you fuckers wanna live forever?!" "No, sir!!" his deputies barked back. "Fuckin' A!!" Junior slapped a magazine into his trusty assault rifle as the bullets came flying in from the windows outside Parkside. "Fire when ready!!" He turned to his side and sprayed into a window, and bullets stopped flying out. But there were other windows, and other gunmen. The deputies loosened their formation and spread out as they made themselves moving targets for the snipers. Some of the other townsfolk broke out their own guns and fired into the buildings. Some of the bullets struck inanimate robots and bounced off. Townsfolk saw this and sought safety in their motionless multitude. Outside the town, soldiers were rushing up into the buildings to replace fallen snipers. Pop-pop-pop, came the sounds of grenades, then there came a loooong whistle. Alan, midway between the robots and the line of deputies, looked up and blanched. "Grenades!!" he screamed, pointing up at the sky. "Everyone, run!! Run!!" Townsfolk ran screaming from the amassed robots. Alan abandoned his last few guns. The first, or maybe second, grenade to hit inside Parkside proper hit the ground near where Alan had been standing. He was far enough away to avoid being directly hit, but the blast knocked him off his feet. He tumbled to the ground, scraping his cheek and scuffing his jacket. "...Ohhhhggg...," he groaned, then laboriously pulled himself up. Someone's front steps had been blasted to pieces. Three, or maybe four, of the LP robots had been knocked down. There was smoke, and Alan heard screams through it. "...Ahh...," he uttered between breaths. "Ahhhh, okay. Everyone!" He brushed his jacket off and looked to the sky. He heard a pop... pop, then a whistle. He saw shadows against the clouds. They looked distant. "Everyone, listen!! Keep your eyes up!! Find whoever's closest to you and stick together!!" He didn't know if anyone could hear him. He wasn't sure if anyone was listening. (They were.) "Keep close!!" BOOOOM-BOOM, went the grenades as they struck one of the houses near the gatehouse. "We gotta stick together!! It's the only way we'll make it through this!!" He didn't know if that was true. He wasn't sure if anyone believed him. (...They did.) Meanwhile, Junior and his deputies were doing their best impression of Leviathan in the stairwell, and spraying everything above and around the Secret Service with hot lead. "Get him down from there!!" the lieutenant screeched as the other soldiers struggled to lower the platform. "I-gggghhh!!" one of the soldiers garbled. "It's stuck!!" "What do you mean it's stuck-!!" "-It's fuckin' stuck!!" "He's gonna die-!!" The lieutenant pointed up, then looked that way, then stopped talking. In all the noise and chaos, the soldier screamed back, "It's stuck!! I can't get it down!! I c-!!" He, too, looked up. There was President Bellows, standing up there on that platform, with the bullets whizzing around him... ...Completely unharmed. He looked like a well-dressed man at a bus station, waiting patiently for the 8:35 to pull in. I cannot say what passed through his head. It wasn't bullets, I can tell you that much. To his men, though... he was like unto a god. He was a slayer of demons. A champion of the common man. A bulletproof ubermensch; an actual, factual Superman. Invincible. Immortal. ...A child slaver. A homicidal maniac. An actual, factual destroyer of cities. Bloody, bloody Bellows. ...He's an American Hero. He's everything we ever wanted. God, forgive us. ... ...I didn't know what to say. After a shared minute of motionless silence, I scooted next to Hayley. She meagerly turned away from me. "You're not a loser," I whispered. She said nothing. I wasn't sure what to say beyond that. I didn't know what I could say. Oblivion: that damnable feeling again. It wasn't silent, what with all of the explosions outside the tower... but the way it felt up there on the 70th floor, it might as well have been. I looked down at the floor for a little while, then I looked up. "Why... did you bring me here?" I asked. She said nothing. "I mean... what was your plan? For me?" She said nothing... but she turned her head a little further away. There was an uncomfortable shift in her shoulders. She said nothing. "...Did you even have a plan?" I asked. Nothing. "Because sometimes, I got the feeling you didn't." I leaned forward and caught a glimpse of her face. There was a hint of fear in her eyes, but her face wasn't really registering anything. That made me think, Holy moly... she's embarrassed. I sighed... then I chuckled. It was actually pretty funny. "It's okay. It was probably just curiosity, right? I mean, c'mon, you're a scientist. You found an old lab filled with brains, and there's one in there that looks semi-solid. You've got some old junker here that can do stuff with 'em. You probably figured you'd put the two together and see what happens. Am I right?" ...She said nothing. The humor dissolved. After a few more seconds, I said, "I was angry, at first. I mean, I was scared first, of Natsuko, if you can believe that..." I thought about things. "And I got angry when I found a way out... but... well, I wasn't too, uh... gung-ho about it." I rubbed my knees. "I wanted revenge... for, like, five minutes." I paused. "Yeah, that plan fell apart... pretty... quickly, what with the... guns, and robots, and... a-poc-alypse..." I sound like an idiot, I thought. ...Meh, I added. "Ultimately... I figured all I wanted was an apology. From you." She turned her head toward me a little. "For imprisoning me, without any... well, without any contact. Without being able to... talk, or move, or... or anything." Man, you should've seen the skepticism on her face. "I mean, c'mon. I'm a person. I got lonely. You know how that can get." I saw a flash of guilt on her face before she turned away again. "What was the harm in giving me some freedom to..." I paused. I got up and walked around to her front. Hayley let out an anxious little sound, as she really, really did not want to talk to me. "Hey!" I grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from turning away. "You attached the arm to Miki-chan, didn't you? There's nobody else here who could do it, so it had to be you." She was avoiding eye contact. "You did give me freedom, but only a little. Why not... I dunno, whip up a pair of legs or something? Build another robot?" Her face twitched. "Give me some more freedom, let me in?" ...She sighed. "...You'd take...," she breathed, "one look at this place... and jump off the fuckin' roof." ... ...I let go of her shoulders and sat on the floor in front of her. She looked heavy, slouched there in her hazmat suit and overalls. "...I built... Natsuko's brain... It was such a pain in the ass..." She breathed in and out. "So many small pieces, and the code... ugh..." She glanced at me, guilt in her eyes, then she looked down. "I never figured... I'd find a human brain just... lying around, but... it's the best computer ever made. Nothing else like it." She sat silent. "...So you did want me for a robot," I said as it dawned on me. "But..." "...I didn't think there'd be a... that'd somebody would..." She frowned. "I didn't think," she groaned. At one time, I might have been grossed out by that. That was before I spent months in a robot body, though. "So... you just ignored it? Me?" "I-I-I tried to..." She shrugged. "I tried to... do stuff for you, kinda... keep you entertained. The-the arm, the videos. I dunno." She looked wretched. "I dunno..." I could have pressed her further: but why not let me move? Why not let me free? Why not let me walk around, see the world, all the sights and sounds and-?! What a load of cockamamie, self-important bullshit. She was a girl, sitting on the floor, crying. "I've already told you a dozen times that you're not a loser," I said. "I'll say it a dozen more, if I have to." I heard the volleys outside. If I have time, I mentally added. She was... off. I mean, shut down. It's what happens. I wanted her to react so badly, to give me something, anything. She didn't. It was oblivion. A thing that is not a thing. Emptiness without any sign of it ever having held anything. "...I-I'm sorry," I mumbled. She glanced up. "...I lied to you. I led you on." I paused. "I... wasn't here when you needed me." She looked confused. "Where is she?!" someone cried. "I-I-I don't-!!" Alan blurted. He had moved from the robots and guns to just helping people do anything: getting away from the grenades, shooting into the buildings alongside the deputies, getting through the smoke... "If anyone's a loser here, it's me. I've been... trying so hard to do what I thought was right, I ignored what everyone wanted. Fuck... I've been screwing everything up since I woke up here." I stared at the Miki-chan robot for a few seconds. "...I thought I could make things... normal." I looked down at Hayley. "But what is normal, anyway?" The window above the bed shook so hard, it broke. The bed Gary and Annabelle were on jiggled away from the wall, taking the comatose teen and his little sister for a ride. Charlotte and Bee were huddled under a blanket -- a poor shelter, but there was no shelter to begin with, in their own bedroom. "I hung around you because... well, because I had to, yeah... and because I thought we could be friends." Mistress Hayley rolled her eyes. "And I thought that because you seemed normal." ...Again, skepticism, times 10. Junior grabbed a deputy's forearm. "...There're grenades in a box," he yelled. "Find 'em!!" Seconds later, another deputy delivered an old bandolier loaded with explosives to the sheriff. Junior stared at it, a sneer parting his lips. He yanked a grenade off, pulled the pin with his teeth, and pitched it into a building as fast as he could. The inside of the building blew out, sending four Secret Service men (or at least what was left of them) flying. "You live in this totally different universe... and at first glance, it seems weird, but... to me, at least, it's recognizable. You're not just living here. You don't just exist. You want to do something. You want to... accomplish something. Uh, that-," I pointed at the bulge of the steel telescope in her overalls, "-that's the proof. Everyone else, they're just... hanging around, like they're... waiting for something." A sobbing woman kneeled at Grant's Gate and prayed. Her hands, her whole body shook like the gate as she begged. "Don't be afraid!!" President Bellows called out triumphantly above his hell. "Rejoice!! I'm here to save you!! Ahhhhhh, I love you all!!" "You're not content to just wait, though. You're actually dedicated to something... definite. Something you know is there." She looked uncertain... but not that uncertain. She put her hand on the telescope. "Oh, man, I wish I had that. That used to be admirable, you know." I paused. "I think it still is, but most people don't remember. I think that... when they look up here, though, they remember it, just a little. They know change comes from up here. They know that... something good, something better, can come from up here because it used to come from up here all the time. That this... is... proof, inarguable proof, that we don't have to just... wait. That we can... do. Y'know? And I think you're the center of all of that." She was staring at me, mouth open. I stared back. "...So no, Hayley Johnston. You are not a loser." ... ...Nothing happened. Mistress Hayley didn't leap up with newfound vigor, or renew whatever vows she had taken when she became the Metal Mistress, or... ...I mean, I wasn't expecting her to. I was... well, I... ... ...I don't know what I was expecting. But I got nothing. She sat there on the floor, not sobbing or crying, but rather kind of stunned. She stared at me for a couple more seconds... ...But it didn't last. There came this terrible deadness in her eyes. I felt angry. I felt sick. Soon, however, I didn't feel much at all. It was just... so draining. The volleys of grenades were getting louder. The gunfight between Parkside's police department and the Secret Service echoed throughout the building. I could hear screaming, and shouting, and cheering, and... ... ...My arms felt heavy. Everything... heavy. "...I... I c-," I uttered. "I can't. I-I... I can't." Mistress Hayley glanced at me. "I... can't... do this. I can't..." I put my hands over my optical sensors. "I can't... outlive you, and Alan, and... the girls, I can't. I won't, no." I shook my head bitterly. "No." She looked quizzical. "Not gonna watch you die. No." I plodded away from her, my feet heavy, toward the entrance to the junk-lab. "...Nats...," Hayley meekly pipped. I paused. "Take care of yourself, Hayley," I said. "You deserve it." I said nothing else as I turned and plodded down the hall. I was... blank, empty, running on fumes. I briefly considered that this was the first thing I saw when I left the junk-lab. I briefly considered whether I should have ever left the junk-lab. I stopped at the broken window at the end of the hall, where it made a left turn, past the stairwell where I had first met Gary, around a wall and into the workshop where... it all happened. Me and The Mistress. Teeny, Tiny, and Leviathan. Candace's beginning, Brooke's end, Sheila's rage, and Hayley's isolation. All of it was so familiar. I could feel the light pressure as the breeze blew against my face. I looked up at a mostly-cloudless sky, and although I could not feel heat or cold, I knew it had, for the most part, been an unseasonably warm winter. I could hear the explosions and screams much more clearly, but they didn't really register. I looked out over the mostly-abandoned city, at the trees that grew up between sidewalk cracks and the vines that climbed the collapsed husks of fallen skyscrapers. I looked at the gutted stores, their windows long-shattered, now inhabited by beasts that crawled, skittered, walked, and flew in the shadows and the light. I looked at the water that covered everything else, and at a few people hiding, crouched, on distant rooftops, waiting for rescue, or for the storm on the ground to pass, or the end. Maybe some of them saw me. Maybe not. ...And I thought, It really is beautiful. ...This isn't so bad. ...Not so bad at all. ...Maybe it's all right. Everything's alright. BOOOOOOM!! The guardhouse collapsed into itself under the weight of the barrage, and the north end of Grant's Gate tilted inward dangerously. It was so easy. I looked down. 70 stories. Just one step, and no more effort. No more worries, no more fear. No more enemies or friends, or those in between. No more constantly switching between optimism, despondence, and panic. No more. Just no more. The volume of the blasts increased evermore as the Secret Service made the last push. I closed my eyes and slowly extended one leg over, over the edge, into empty space and air and then nothing at all. There would be nothing at all, nothing. No more. One step, lean forward, and- "SYSTEM UNBLOCKED." The electronic voice shook me out of my fugue. Click. Click. Whirrrr, went 800 robots. Alan turned and looked over his shoulder, and he watched lighted eyes come back on. CRINK-CH-CHUD, went the last clamp on the south side of the gate as it was pulled apart. The praying woman let out a baleful cry and ran. Grant's Gate wobbled for a second before tilting... ...Leaning... ...Careening into Parkside, slamming into the pavement and dry winter soil with a mighty crash. The cheering and noise on the other side increased a hundred-fold as black-suited men started charging in, weapons drawn, through the dust and smoke- "COMMANDER... ALAN... CARSON," one robot said, "PLEASE... PROVIDE... ORDERS-" Without a second thought, Alan threw up his arm, pointing at the Secret Service so hard he probably speared a couple soldiers as he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Attaaaaack!!" And 800 pairs of lighted eyes turned blood-red. Tiny, down in the lobby against one wall, blinked back to life. He scanned the lobby automatically, searching for any threats to The Mistress, and found none. With The Mistress nowhere in sight and only his robo-bro Teeny to keep him company, his computer processes turned to analyzing exterior threats. Something big was happening to the west. He continued to observe the situation out that way while keeping his focus on the lobby. I turned around. There was Hayley, standing 15 feet from me, holding the laptop in her hands. She turned it so the screen faced me. The crimson with pink lettering had been replaced by sky blue with white lettering: "SYSTEM UNBLOCKED." "Give them weapons!!" Alan screamed out as the third row of robots charged past him. "Grab weapons!! Give 'em!!" He stuck out an arm and forcefully stopped an LP robot in its tracks, then shoved the gun he had been loading into its chest. The robot took it without hesitation, cocked it, then pointed it down between the columns of its brothers at the Secret Service- -BANG! A black-suited thug went down. But that wasn't the start of it, oh no. The Secret Service was charging in full-steam, spreading into town like a swarm, chasing down anyone and everyone they laid eyes on. Junior and his deputies stood facing that front of screaming madness, guns blazing as the sheriff roared, "Die, you mother-fuckers!!" LP robots burst past him like a wind at his back, taking his breath away. Fright mixed with berserk rage among Bellows' men as they charged forward nevertheless. Brass met black in the middle of old Boston Common as two armies -- man and robot -- slammed together into a warring line. Junior stopped spraying and threw his rifle across his back. He pulled out two pistols and leapt two-fisted into the line. I stepped back from the edge. "...Hayley..." The laptop slipped out of her hands. "-Huk," she blubbed, then pressed one hand to her eyes. Her mouth twisted in a miserable grimace. "- Huk!!" I had such an addiction. "Aw." I took a couple big steps over to her and embraced her. She hesitated for a second before wrapping her arms around my back and burying her head in my shoulder. "...Thank you," I whispered. "D-don' jjj-," she bleated. "I wouldn't dream of it," I said, patting the back of her head. Alan was among the horde of robots, with his friends scattered around him, and the Secret Service ahead of him, and the platform with President Bellows... somewhere, and gunsmoke and screaming- -There was a black-suited man right there, just five feet from him, billy club held over his head. Alan automatically reached for his gun at his hip- -Not there! He dodged the first strike as the screaming Secret Serviceman brought the club down hard, and he countered with a right hook. The man stumbled, but shook it off with a snort and came charging again. Alan grabbed his wrist and smashed his fist into his temple. The man let out a gurgle and fell to the ground unconscious. Alan didn't have a gun. A quick search of the black-suited man revealed he didn't have one, either. Alan had been so generous with weaponry, he had gone into a gunfight unarmed. I'm sure he must have thought, Shit, or some variant thereof. Some of the smoke cleared, and for just a second, he could see the platform. I held Hayley in my arms and let her cry it out. It felt good, and it felt good to help her feel better, and I felt relief. So much relief. "It'll be okay," I whispered. "It'll all be okay-" She squeezed me, and it felt tight, but it was still okay. Anything to help, I thought. She squeezed a little tighter and snuffled. ...It wasn't a too-tight squeeze, but I did briefly consider that she had pretty good upper body strength. Then I considered that she had more arms than a normal person (...Does she keep them hidden, I thought...). Then I noticed that she noticed she had more arms than a normal person. Then I noticed they weren't her arms. I looked to my left. She looked to her right. Spot. He wanted a hug, too. Okay, a word of warning: this is where things get complicated. ...Oh, and violent, too. Very, very violent. That's when the hug ended, and murder-happy-fun time began. It was like the god-damn sewers all over again; almost before I could scream, or yell, or even make a noise, Spot shoved me hard against the wall, rattling me bad. Hayley cried out. Dog-boy whipped out a knife and stabbed me in the neck. That would have been bad, if not for... you know. Robot. I grabbed his wrists and stomped on his insole. I don't know how much milk Spot had lapped up as a pup, but it hurt. He pried one hand out of my grasp and clobbered me- -KLUNK! Spot froze up. He looked behind himself. There was Hayley, wielding the dented laptop like a club. Spot stared at her for a second... ...Then rubbed the back of his head. That hurt, you piece'a shit, his expression said. "Run!!" I screamed. "Run, Hayley!!" Spot punched me again, and I toppled to the floor. With me down, the assassin turned his attention to his newer (and actual, although I have my doubts that he knew that) (or he might have known, and just didn't care) target. Hayley backed away as Spot pulled two knives off his belt and approached her. "Tiny!!" she screamed, but he was nowhere nearby. Leviathan was in town, and Teeny wouldn't be any help... Well, I was down, but not out. I spun on the floor and grabbed Spot's ankle. "Get out of here!!" I yelled at Hayley. Spot twisted and yanked his leg, but I held on fast. Hayley wasn't frozen, "God-dammit, run!!" She ran into the junk-lab. A dead end. Before the full implications of just how bad that idea was hit me, Spot hit me (or really, kicked me) with the underside of his foot in my face. My brain thudded around inside its bubble like a bumper car as he bolted off after her. I never knew what the term "fog of war" meant before that day, and I suspect Alan had never heard it. He got to learn it from experience, though. It's not just the smoke and reduced visibility of a dozen grenades and thousands of pairs of feet, you see. It's the whole thing -- the mass of bodies and metal colliding and slicing against itself in constant pulsing waves. It was Parkside's worst balls-to-the-wall, fists-out- and-broken-glass, pissed-off and inebriate-packed tavern brawl times 100. There were 10 Secret Servicemen to every one LP robot. Approximately 200 Parksiders were fielded, bringing the total number in Alan's "army" to 1000, and giving the whole shebang an 8-to-1 ratio of baddies to goodies. Needless to say, that sucked. I had realized it as I uploaded Miki- chan's combat programming. It was pretty weird to think that 800 robots could actually be too few robots for anything. But what else could I have done? ...I gotta say, though, everyone agrees: the LPers kicked ass. They could throw a punch. LPers were denting up their hands as they beat their way through thugs. They were delivering gut-shots so strong that the R-U-S-A's best were regretting eating breakfast as the old common field became littered with partially-digested dried fruit and hardtack. They could deliver a kick. Through the smoke, Alan saw at least one LPer deliver a roundhouse straight into a Secret Serviceman's chest, breaking his ribs and sending him flying backwards into two other guys. They could fight, but one of the thugs quickly regained his footing and shot the robot four times in the chest. The LPer sparked and fell backwards. Alan had found a gun somewhere out there, maybe dropped by a thug or given to him by a Parksider friend, I'm not sure and neither was he, and before the thug could turn Alan shot him in the neck, and he went down with a gargling yell. Another three thugs rushed him and tackled him to the ground, and I'm not sure why they didn't have guns but they didn't and the two directly on top of Alan were beating him in the face and neck instead, and a bayonet was out and over him. Alan pistol- whipped the first man on top and with his one free second shot Mr. Bayonet in the chest and an LPer kicked the third in the groin, and the man rolled off crying in pain- -And the LP robot offered Alan a hand. Alan took it. He didn't realize he had been helped by an LPer until its head was blown off a second later. The robot fell against Alan as he whipped up his gun and shot the gunman in the shoulder. They were in all directions, beating and shooting Parksiders and LPers. The first wave had been frightened so badly by the sudden resurgence of robots, many had turned heel and collided with the second wave. Only half were armed with guns, which explained why so many were wielding billy clubs and bayonets. The second wave was coming in, though, and all around him people and robots were being felled by streams of bullets. Alan rushed a shape in the smoke and clobbered a thug, then ripped his gun away and started shooting back. Bit by bit, he was going deeper and deeper into the ranks of Secret Servicemen as he made his way toward the western entrance. Guess why. At the same time, Junior could not have been more than 30 feet from Alan, but they didn't see each other. Parkside's sheriff had pretty much gone full-blown Viking berserker in the midst of battle. The man was throwing himself against groups of a half-dozen or more, getting the crap beat out of him each time, but never leaving behind a Secret Serviceman that wasn't injured or dead. It was like getting beat up only made him mad. One guy punched him square in the jaw, and he reciprocated by biting off the man's thumb. ...I think he might have swallowed it. I think!! I don't know for certain!! He was gouging eyes, snapping necks, choking squealing little R.U.S.A. bitches out while using them as fucking human body armor as he forced them to watch him blow away their little bitch buddies with their own weapons. They ran from him to seek easier prey before they were simply running from him, but there was no running because that day, Sheriff Galen Motherfucking Foster Jr. was Death Incarnate, a two-fisted Irish- American amalgamation of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He was Ares. He was Charon. He was the Gatekeeper of the Underworld, and Hades himself. He was freaked out when he saw four thugs bust into his house. "Oh, you shits!!" he yelled, slitting the throat of the guy he was holding before running toward his front door. He leapt up the steps onto the landing, tossed aside the bowie knife in his hand, pulled two pistols out of his holsters and burst into his living room, blowing away the guy halfway up the stairs before he could fire back, shooting the second guy who was in the kitchen, diving behind his easy chair as the remaining two soldiers unleashed a flurry of bullets upon him, shattering his front window and ripping holes through the upholstery. One paused to reload as the other continued to fire, and Junior took the chance to lean out of cover and plug him three times in the chest, and the last one was screaming bloody murder as he moved in on the easy chair, gun blazing as he reduced it to its frame and scattered bits of foam, and Junior was losing cover fast and he was out of bullets for one gun and had only one bullet left in the other and this last thug was a big motherfucker, real big, and really fucking pissed, and one bullet just wouldn't cut it for this asshole, at least not from that distance, oh no. The thug was three feet away and suddenly out of bullets so he paused to reload and he was damn quick and Junior leapt up, seized the remains of his easy chair, and smashed it against the thug before he could pull out his sidearm, and the thug staggered as Junior took one big step forward and shot him point-blank in the head. "Heathen!!" screeched someone to Junior's left. There was a fifth Secret Serviceman there and aw shit he was holding a big bundle of grenades where the fuck did he get those Are those mine, Junior thought, thieving shit, ah shit, the thug, fat little bastard, was he the band leader maybe I don't know, screamed "Die, heathen scum-!!" -WHUD the band leader was knocked to the floor by a blur of copper and then another one two metal men on top of the snarling, struggling band leader sprawled on the hardwood floor at the base of the stairs fighting for the grenades fighting to keep the pins in fighting to pull them out an LPer punched him in the side but the band leader was bloodied and crazed and was gripping that bundle so tight it'd take a crowbar to pry it out of his fingers and By God's Will He'd Rather Die and Junior threw aside his empty pistols, ripped a sidearm out of big thug's holster and took aim at the band leader but if he missed and hit the robots then they'd die and the little fucker would pull the pin out ah shit fuck shit shit shit- -Junior paused. ...He thought for a second. "...The fuck am I doing?" he whispered to himself. He tucked the gun into his belt, scooped up an assault rifle, and slung it over his shoulder as he crossed the room to the fireplace. Junior pulled the amateurish painting of old Sheriff Waltrip off the wall, muttered "Sorry, Jim," and flinched as he smashed the frame against the mantle. The aged wood shattered with one hit. Junior ripped the biggest pieces of wood from the canvas, rolled it up, and jammed it into his belt. It'd crease, but that was better than its other possible fate. Junior jogged to the front door and whistled. "Hey!! Metal... guys!!" The LPers froze. The band leader, momentarily relieved of his attackers, did the same. "Clear out, on the double!!" Junior jerked his thumb out the front door. Without question, the LPers leapt up and ran out the door single-file. Completely freed of the robots, the band leader hoisted himself to his feet. Junior did nothing to stop him as he jammed his fingers through three pins; instead, the sheriff placed one hand on the doorknob, one foot outside. "Die, you whore of Satan!!" the band leader screeched. "For Justice!!" He yanked the pins out, his arms stretched all the way out to his side like Jesus on the Cross, eyes aglow with righteous fury, a true soldier and defender of The Lord and a Hero of All Creation. "For Lord President Bellows!!" Junior rolled his eyes. "For The Lord Almi-" "-Just explode already!!" Junior barked, and he slammed the door shut. ...I'm not sure what happened after that. Well, okay, I know, but... well, I have to confess: my imagination's kinda run away with this. What happened to the band leader after Junior shut the door on him? I mean, I know what happened, but... what "happened?" He was alone in that house for about a second, maybe less. What did he think? What went through his head? (Besides the obvious.) Was he confused? He had just delivered a very heartfelt monologue. It was short, but he meant every word. Didn't Junior want to hear it? He had practiced it many times! It was really good! Bang-up, even- -I regret that already. I'm very sorry. Was he sad? There's the whole thing about the monologue. Plus, he was about to die. That must've been something of a downer, even if he believed he was going to heaven. Take it from me: nothing will ruin your day like your own death. Top it off with the possibility that nobody besides Junior knew he was in there, and nobody would see what he was doing... ... ...Personally, I think he was regretful. I could be wrong. This is just an exercise in imagination. But like I said, nobody knew he was there. He was unseen. He was in a stranger's house in a foreign land holding the instruments of his own destruction, which he himself had triggered. And for what? President Bellows? God? He could've sat in a factory stitching uniforms for the Secret Service, and President Bellows would have been happy. He could've stood in a soup kitchen feeding the poor, and God would have been happy. He didn't need to blow himself up. There was a hundred ways he could've done his part for his country, rightfully called himself loyal and godly, and gone home to his family that evening. But he didn't, because he was alone in a stranger's house in a foreign land, holding the instruments of his own destruction, which he himself had triggered. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he wasn't the band leader, but rather just another Secret Serviceman. Maybe he really, truly did want to die there. If that's the case, then, well... ... ...It's nice to imagine sometimes. Alan, punching and shooting his way across Parkside, was aghast when he got within sight of his house. Waves of black-suited thugs were surging through the western entrance like the pounding ocean. Bellows' platform was in there somewhere, although the man himself could not be seen clearly through the smoke and chaos. The platform was too high off the ground to be reached; it was over the level of the second story of the houses on either side of it. After a few more steps, Alan saw a window was open in his house -- the window of the girls' bedroom. He saw one small arm reaching out, feeling the house's brick facade. He wheezed when he saw his daughter's head pop out, and her eyes go agog at the sight of it all- "-Bee!!" Annabelle yelled. "Get back in here!!" "Wegodd-" Bee's high-pitched voice was momentarily lost in the screams and bursts. A grenade exploded nearby, shaking the house's foundations. Annabelle hopped off Gary's bed and seized her sister by the legs before she could go pitching out the window, and she pulled her back onto the mattress. Bee struggled, but Annabelle gripped her tight. "Stop!!" Annabelle cried. "-Gotta go-!!" Bee exclaimed, but her voice was being drowned out. "We-" WEEEOOOWWW-BOOOOOM, another grenade struck nearby, and the house was bucking. "No, Bee!!" What the hell is she trying to do, Alan thought. Sick panic was filling his heart. Is she trying to jump out the fucking window?! Is she insane?! She's insane!! She's always been insane, always climbing-!! -And then he saw it. Alan Carson had looked at the front of his house every day for 34 years, but he had never really thought about it until he considered how his daughter saw it. He had never noticed how some of the bricks stuck out from the wall, or how close together they were, or how sturdy the rain gutter lining the roof really was (thanks, in no small part, to his own efforts), or how easily one could reach the window ledges with steady footing. Alan had been so focused, so certain she was climbing a tree or something, so upset at how Bee kept climbing on top of the Mitchells' house, it had never occurred to him that she wasn't climbing the Mitchells' house. She was climbing her own house. With a grunt, Alan shoved his way through thugs and robots, bolted up his stoop, and leapt and grabbed the bricks above his front door. He pulled himself up, pausing as bullets snapped against the brickwork above him, and hoisted his way to the bedroom window. "Dad!!" Annabelle yelled. "Daddy!!" Bee screamed. "Stay there!!" Alan roared as he lifted himself past the window. "Stay-urf!!" Within seconds, he was out of sight. Bee kept struggling to pry herself from Annabelle's grip. "Stop it!!" Annabelle squealed, keeping a lock on her sister. "Dad said-!!" "-They're coming in!!" Bee yelled, finally getting a word in over the din. "They're not-!!" Bee was pointing at something; Annabelle just noticed it right then, as Bee's arm was hanging uselessly above her. She was pointing at the door to the bedroom, which was shaking like everything in the bedroom. But then Annabelle heard the grunts, and the voices, and she realized- -CRACK the door swung open, and a Secret Serviceman stumbled a foot inward. Two others were standing in the hall behind him. One dropped the hammer Alan had left. Annabelle let go of Bee, and a fourth man peeked in. Charlotte, still under the bed, let out a cry. Annabelle's breath caught in her throat. Four children -- three five-year-olds and one comatose teen -- faced four soldiers of the R.U.S.A., alone. "...Guhhhggg," I gargled, rolling onto my stomach so the room could right itself. I did the hardest damn push-up I've ever done and skittered on my hands and knees toward the door to the junk-lab. Spot was in there dodging flying junk. Hayley was in there, shielded temporarily by the computer table, throwing everything she could grab at him. She paused to pick up something heavy, and Spot threw a knife at her and it caught her in the shoulder and she screamed and I snarled and charged that murderous sonofaliteralbitch and tackled him in his midriff and although I don't weigh much I nearly got him in his center of mass and he let out a "yarp" sound and balled his fists together and clubbed me in the small of my back and my legs gave out and he tried to turn and go after Hayley who was trying to work up the nerve to pull a goddamn knife out of her shoulder and I was at Spot's feet again and Fuck it I can't taste anything anyway I thought I bit him in the ankle- -Hard- -And Yeah I guess you're not the only dog here huh asshole I thought but I didn't say it because god-damn was I holding on and he was yaffing and raffing and trying to shake me off and I grabbed his other leg and he tripped and fell backwards and Hayley cried out in pain as she pulled it out and I was on top of him battering him with my fists and he was slicing me hitting me trying to get me off him and I was cursing up a fucking storm full cloud cover 100% chance of Go Fuck Yourself and he was growling snarling baring his teeth and POW he knocked me once BAM twice in the temple rattling me again and shoved me off one-handed and I was flat on my back and aw shit he was on top of me battering me and we knocked the table and Miki-chan's body tilted and the fake skin-covered arm she used to play with fell off and I seized it and battered Spot in the hip with it and he yelled and I smacked him in the face with it -- no, seriously, open palm -- and he huffed and ruffed and tried to gouge my eyes out- -And I kneed him square in the nuts, which I felt bad about for, like, half a second- -Because this wasn't a fight. I was trading blows with a guy who could take on an entire fort and have fun doing so. My right cheek and half my jawline looked like shredded cheese. My warning signals had been flashing so much, I gave up and shut them off. He had left knives in me. I was slap-fighting in a knife fight, which was like bringing a knife to a gun fight. I could scrap, though, and holy hell did I piss him off. Spot tottered to his feet, holding his aching testes in one hand and a knife in the other, with a toxically enraged look on his face. I leapt to my feet, my sliced-up hands slipping against the floor. He huffed. He growled. He roared as he threw himself at me and all I had was that arm- -WHAM a flying computer monitor struck him in the side of the head, and down he went. Mistress Hayley was still behind the computer table, still standing... but just barely. "...Ow!" she wheezed, and she fell against the table, clutching her bleeding left shoulder. I raced over to her side and tried to pull her hand away, but she resisted. "Let me see it!!" I pleaded, and she gave in. The knife had been short, and her layers of clothing had taken most of it, but not all. I pulled down the sleeve of her overcoat, then her overalls. I unzipped and yanked at her biohazard suit. Believe it or not, she had another layer beneath it: a light brown thin leather bomber jacket. "Should'a left the padding in it," Hayley muttered miserably. I won't tell you what she had (or didn't have) on under that -- I'm a man, not an ape. The wound went about an inch or two inward (Damn, that guy throws hard, I thought) and ended in... "...Oh, shit," I croaked. "What?" I spun around and searched the computer table. "What?!" I picked up a bloody knife. The pointy end of it had broken off. "Dammit, what-?!" She saw the knife. Even with part of my face missing, my wince must have been visible. "It's still in there," I uttered. "...Uhhhhh..." I looked around again for some kind of tool, but I realized I already had what I needed. "Oh-ho what-" I tore the rubber skin off the tops of my index finger and thumb (it was mostly shredded anyway) and held them up. "No... no-no-!!" "-This is gonna suck," I said apologetically, and I stuck my fingers into her wound before she could stop me. She screamed in pain. "Bite my hand!" I said, holding up my other hand to her face as she thrashed about. I shoved my left hand between her lips, and she clamped her teeth onto it and I didn't feel anything anyway. Gotta make this quick, I thought as I dug into her flesh and tapped my fingers against something hard and I clamped down on it and yanked- -And the knife tip came out. Hayley let go of my hand and clenched her shoulder. "Sorry!!" I blurted, and I tossed the knife tip aside. "Sorry!!" "Fffffuck!!" "Sorry!!" I ripped up my own blouse and wrapped her shoulder in the tatters. It wasn't a big wound and she wasn't bleeding much, but it looked like it hurt like hell. "What can I get you?! Booze?! Medicine?!" "...Nuh," she replied in between heavy breaths. After a few moments of silence, "Do you just need a minute?" "...Yuh." "...Can I...?" I pointed at her bomber on the table. "...Eh." I put it on. After a couple more seconds, "I'm putting... fucking turrets, by the doors. One-thousand RPM. No mercy!!" "That's a plan." "With passcodes, otherwise-" she made a "whoosh" and whistling sound like a plane dropping bombs, which didn't make sense at the time, but now that I think about it she did see the bomber jacket I was wearing and, with her being distracted by the intense pain, that probably crossed a wire somewhere. "And I'm gonna have one for me, and one for you, and one for Alan, maybe-" "Are you sure you don't want any booze?" "Maybe Alan!" she stressed. "...But he's Alan," I said. "Yeah, I know!" "He's not gonna do anything." "He did something twice! You saw!" "Yeah, but... I mean, it's not like he's gonna come running up here to hurt you-" -Spot hurtled over the computer table on a direct path toward Hayley. She fell back with a scream and threw her arms up, and he dropped on top of her. I grappled with him for a moment, but he had caught us off-guard. He clocked me with one hand and went back to trying to stab Hayley who was wedged between the computer table and the table behind her, and I charged Spot again but he clocked me again and I went stumbling back, and I couldn't even get close enough to do anything and there was nothing left on the computer table and it was so tight between them and all the furniture I couldn't get any leverage to pry them apart or get her out, I was in a panic, he was gonna kill her, he was gonna rip her throat out like he did Roger only with knives, always knives, always cutting and slicing and killing Jesus Christ how do you stop this, think, I thought, think, think, Hayley was screaming and- -God-dammit, think... The inside of Junior's house blew out just after he closed the door. The blast was almost enough to knock the sturdy front door off its hinges, but not quite. I don't know what he thought about that, but it probably wasn't much. Like I said: he hated the place. He rushed down the stairs to rejoin the main fight- -But then the fight came to him. It started with a second explosion in his house, much bigger than the first, which confused him. Maybe the first explosion had set off one of the lethal goodies left over in the house, but Junior was pretty sure there weren't any of those left, unless it had been hidden. Even so, he was pretty sure- -There was another explosion that was much, much bigger than the first two, then a series of smaller explosions. Junior's house disintegrated before his eyes in fire and smoke, and then yelling, and- "Aw, shit!!" Junior spat. He pointed his assault rifle into the crumbling space where his domicile had stood less than a minute before and began spraying. Sure enough, black-suited thugs came rushing in over the debris. "Shit!!" There were a dozen of them, then two dozen, then ten dozen screaming soldiers charging into Parkside through this new hole in the wall around the town. "I need backup!!" Alan was expecting to get shot in the back at any second. He was a sitting duck there on the roof of his house. Plus, he had a mild but troubling fear of heights. His feet were in the gutters, and the peak of the roof was several feet up the slick shingles he had put on just after Bee's summer antics. He couldn't find any other purchase. He also couldn't hear anything happening in the house below him. "...Well, what's this?" the soldier in front cooed as he sauntered into the ABCs' bedroom. "Cute!" He brushed his crotch with his fingers. Annabelle pulled on Bee's shoulder but the girl didn't wait -- she leapt off the bed, thing-hitter held high, and charged the first soldier, who looked a little betrayed before he swatted her like a mosquito. She stumbled, and with one hand, he tossed her against the bed. She cried out as she slammed into the headboard. "Not this now," the soldier behind him groaned. "It'll only take a minute!" "We're..." The soldier behind him looked to the other two, then waved down the hall. "Check the other rooms," he said, then, "We don't have time-" "-One minute!!" The other soldier sighed; he didn't really care either way. "...Fine. One minute." Charlotte was shaking under Gary's bed. The soldier had Bee pinned to another while he tried to undo his fly with one hand. The soldier at the door was peeking down the hall, and Annabelle had no idea what to do. I was grappling with Spot's arm, trying to keep him from stabbing Hayley, but even with both hands there was no way I could beat the assassin in arm-wrestling. He yanked his arm out of my grip and clobbered me in the temple. I hit the table and went stumbling back. Hayley was on the floor and trying to get him off of her, and he was going to rip her apart- -Think, damn it, I thought- Junior took shelter at the bottom of the hill that used to be his house as a rain of bullets came down over him. He fired back into the line of thugs and a second later was tackled to the ground by five or six linebacker-sized guys, and he shot two or three of them as they were beating the crap out of him, and the gun was knocked out of his hands and he was kic