The elevator doors opened to a crime scene, and Malory hesitated to move another step. ZenTech had made it to the lab, and judging by the carnage strewn about, found the Doc ready and waiting. Mal knew he was strong, but he was always alone. If she continued, she was going to find something that wasn’t allowed to be put into words, as if the act of being a witness would cement it as an indelible fact. She didn’t have the strength to alter reality, but the ghost that haunted her, anchored firmly inside the implant bolted to her skull, had no reservations and took steady steps toward the answer they both knew. At least Evie had the courtesy to look sad about it. Malory bent down, wiped away some of the gunk stuck to her boots, and relaced them. She focused on the fibers, the texture, each cross and loop until they were tight enough to cut circulation from her toes. When she was done, she rose with her head held high, sucked on the split in her lip, and headed in with the taste of iron on her tongue. She stepped over severed limbs, the discarded weaponry, her legs lead weights until she found the Doc sitting at his desk with a half-glass of chilled bourbon in his hand. He wasn’t breathing.
Malory circled around until she could see his face, that maze of deep-set wrinkles that had been kind to her splattered with slaughter—he looked peaceful there, like every time she’d found him sleeping on paperwork, a bit of drool causing the ink to run. She knew none of the silly pranks would be enough to jolt him from that kind of slumber, though, and it broke her. There was a gut-wrenching scream far off in the distance, and her vision tunneled to a slit. She only realized the scream was hers when she felt the pain of vocal chords tearing. She felt the way it bubbled above a well of rage and boiled off into nothing. She swayed, then drew in another gasping breath and screamed again. It wasn’t enough. Noise could never encapsulate the agony of losing someone she loved; she needed to kill, to get even, to make them all pay, but there was no one left. The Doc had taken out every enemy that came before succumbing to the wounds. She looked down at the Lantern, enraptured by the way it whispered to her like a lullaby, as if to say a bullet in the mouth would make it all go away, but she’d promised to stay alive, so she would.
Do you want revenge? To avenge yourself upon the guilty party? Do you want to make them pay the blood price? Price? PRICE?
“Yes,” Mal croaked. Her voice was hoarse, raw, barely audible, but Evie was inside her mind, knew the answer before the questions were asked. It was theater, a play-acted contract for control, and Mal signed it without question.
Good. Very good. Now retreat back into your fantasies and protect whatever’s left. You still have a job to do, but I’ll take it from here. They must provide the weregild to the wronged, to be taught about the virus in the lullaby we sing. Sing. SING.
Malory’s arms went limp at her side, her head tilted forward, and just as she looked like she’d fall, she stopped. Her parts jerked back and forth, her body twitching like she was having a seizure, and then something that wasn’t her looked out at the room through her eyes. She felt herself take one shaky step after another, a rictus grin plastered on her face. Every foot that went forward steadied the movement until it settled into a robotic cadence, and then she was sprinting for the staircase beside the elevator. Her body leapt them three at a time without slowing, up, up, up to the floors above. Her boots, freshly laced, planted and launched with absolute certainty, as if failure was something considered, mocked, then consigned back into oblivion where it belonged. When she reached the floor the ghost wanted, her body slammed through the access door and reached up with a metal hand to tear the throat from one of the guards on the other side, the Lantern erasing the face of the other in a single, fluid motion. It felt right to surrender to the ghost, to observe vengeance delivered as a spectator in her own shell like a Roman emperor in the arena. She wasn’t willing to let Evie spare a single damned soul.
Malory’s body took long strides over to the armory and ended anyone that got in the way. Inside, a large group huddled around one of the tables displaying assault rifles, and the ghost pretended to be an innocent young girl fleeing from the shots down the hall. The group looked up at her approach, and one of the self-important members headed over to her. He didn’t bother to raise his weapon, and he had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He did a poor job hiding the sinister intent, and licked his lips when he stopped in front of her. He was a full two heads taller, and looked her up and down. It was a show, a standoff, and he’d made the mistake of getting far too close. Mal felt herself lurch forward—the ghost plucked a grenade from the man’s loose belt, pulled the pin, and slammed it home into his open mouth. Teeth cracked and caved in, metal and applied force proven superior. When he stumbled back from the shock, her body anchored itself and kicked him in the solar plexus. The impact sent him reeling backward into his colleagues, but she didn’t wait for the aftermath. The ghost threw her body behind a gun cabinet to hide, and when the payload detonated, chunks of seared meat rained over the room.
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Mal admired the savagery of it, the unbending will to consume the living, and when the ghost moved from cover and went around collecting gear, she replayed the moment in her mind. Swift, confident movements, the way each enemy was reduced to slag—she jumped at anything else so she didn’t have to think about the lab, the defiled place she’d started to consider home, or the Doc’s dead face. Evie had a preference for bladed weaponry, for the up close and personal, and grabbed a meat-hook and over-large cleaver. A few grenades, more ammo for the lantern, a sawed-off shotgun, and a heavy machine gun that Malory’s small frame could barely lift even with the artificial strength of the arm implant. Tired muscles paid no attention to the strain, the tearing, because the ghost couldn’t feel, and she hefted it with ease. One last look around the room, at the picked-over racks, each splayed limb, and she smiled in satisfaction before lumbering off for the hunt. The ghost plucked locations directly from the network, and headed for the largest group first. When she stepped into an empty room beside the mess hall, she raised the HMG and pointed it at the abstract wall art, waited for the rotating barrel assembly to get up to speed, and disgorged hell on Earth.
Thick brass shells rolled across the carpeted floor and hissed from the heat, one after another after another. Each shot resounded like a cannon, tore through the thin wall, and ended a life. The firing didn’t stop until there were no signs of life, and Mel felt her grip release. The HMG dropped with a muffled bang as chunks of drywall gave way and provided a window to the other side. There was no need to double-check for survivors, and the ghost crouched down and took off at a full sprint. There were more, so many more, and she gripped the meat hook and cleaver in each hand. A slash, a puncture, flesh and organ rended irrevocably from bone, she tore through the halls like a whirlwind of judgement. In the time it took for the corpos to notice her coming and raise their rifles, their lives were ended and she’d already moved on. Every now and then, she shoved one of the blades into her belt, drew the Lantern, and fired. Floor after floor, the ghost moved her like a puppet to reconquer the headquarters just like she’d said she would. There wasn’t any real method to the madness, either, just efficient slaughter.
The ghost didn’t tire, didn’t care about longevity, and Mal could tell her body was on the verge of collapse from the full-throttle exertion. When the last invader shed their mortal coil, she fell down to one knee and gasped in desperate breaths, thrust suddenly back in control of her own body. The build up hit her all at once, and she blacked out. When the Black Hands found her. She was in the center of an accounting office, still on one knee. She was covered head to toe in the evidence of butchery, each fist clenched desperately to her weapons. It took a moment for anyone to move and help her to her feet because they were afraid she’d attack them on instinct, and it took a woman a few years older than Mal to offer a shoulder and lift her. She tried to ask Malory if there was anything she needed to grab before evacuation, but there was no one left to answer. She was in a catatonic state, her mind unable to handle the pain of her broken body or failing to save the Doc. The group led her out of the room, down the hall, and over to the elevator. Someone had turned the music on, and light jazz serenaded them as they climbed to the roof.
There was a ride there waiting, its engines primed and ready. The copilot screamed out call-signs to make sure they weren’t enemies, and then beckoned them forward when he was certain they wouldn’t attack. The woman helped her inside, strapped her to the seat, and jogged back to try and find more people to help. Malory wobbled from side to side during lift off, the shaking grew more intense as they passed over the wreckage of the AV that was shot down before. If someone was daring enough to reach out of the open door, they could have brushed the surface. When the flight path leveled off, her head tilted to the side and rested on a well-dressed shoulder—the Stranger was seated beside her, and looked down at her with a sly smile.
