Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3 Page 11

  That or kill us, whichever comes first.

  I peek over the rectangular stones, sighting my rifle through a jagged gap in some hastily gathered planking, the only other material available inside the fort. The wood boards aren’t much, but given the circumstances, every bit helps.

  “How many are coming?” a woman asks.

  Cat’s reply is terse. “I doubt we took out more than half. Maybe twenty-five.”

  A crack comes from nearby. As the echo fades, Cat yells, “Last stand time, people.”

  While I blink to stay awake, a strange happiness fills me. In the face of the approaching doom, I might get to take a few with me before the end.

  More shots arrive from the surrounding hills, chipping the rounded tips of the logged walls.

  I hug the frosty ground.

  “Shit,” one of the guards says.

  In spite of the danger, Cat calmly replies, “Stay put. We’re defiladed.”

  She’s right about not being in their line of fire. Because of the angle forced by the fort’s height, the bullets plink into the beige dirt or wooden logs opposite the shooters. Given the limited options, Cat’s picked the only strategy to maximize our meager chances of winning.

  She leans over and pulls clips from my ammo pouches, laying them within easy reach. “Can you reload?”

  Although my fingers tremble, I nod.

  “When the time comes, shoot as fast as you can.”

  “See, I told you I liked her. She’s a natural because she thinks ahead.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Worry about someone else,” I reply through clenched teeth.

  Cat smacks my cheek. “Great, now stay awake.” She turns to the others. “For now, we each cover a sector. Me and Mr. Bright Smile here will take the front.”

  While I want to say or do something to show confidence, I can only grip my rifle tighter and point the muzzle at the barred gates.

  A bullet plinks the ground in front of me. Another splits the top of a wood plank. A second later, a fusillade strikes the circling stones.

  Everyone flinches.

  “Get as low as possible,” Cat says. “They’re right outside, pushing their rifles between the logs.”

  “Damn,” one of the other men says, “we’re sitting ducks.”

  Because there aren’t any better solutions, nobody answers, and for the next minutes, only the heavy patter of whizzing lead and our ragged breaths break the silence.

  When the front gates creak, my eyes widen.

  A shot cracks from behind. The man next to me falls, wounded in the shoulder.

  As pain-filled curses leave his mouth, Cat says, “Don’t be idiots. Stay down and keep your discipline.”

  I’m struck by how easy the anger comes to her voice. As more rifles poke between the logs and send more rounds whizzing past, I wonder if her harshness is natural or a product of the Ten Sigma Program.

  A crash against the wooden door jars me back to reality.

  “Battering ram,” someone says with resignation.

  More thumps come as the locking bar bends.

  My fingers tighten on the trigger.

  “Okay, everyone face front. Make sure you shoot straight,” Cat says, somehow maintaining a level tone.

  I grind my teeth to keep my weakening body awake, forcing the sight of the M1 to remain centered on the entryway.

  It’s do-or-die time.

  “Most likely die,” internal me adds.

  While hisses of lethal projectiles cross overhead, the gates creak inward from the rhythmic pounding. A minute later, the locking bar splinters, and the doors fly open.

  I pull the trigger.

  Bullets pour from the barrel but strike nothing of value, instead hitting the edges of the wooden logs or flying into the forest beyond.

  Rather than entering, our enemies poke the barrels of their guns around the sides of the logs and shoot from cover.

  Whizzing lead pelts everything.

  I hunch and fumble for a reload while splinters rattle off my helmet. After finding a fresh clip, my trembling hands amazingly complete the task without jamming my thumb as I shove the metal holder into the receiver.

  Rock chips spray from a ricochet to my right when I pop my head up. Twitching from cuts across my cheek, I join Cat with a barrage of return fire.

  Most of our hurried shots fly into the distant woods or pepper the doors, but one finds its mark, and an enemy falls with a spurting chest wound.

  An instant later, the spark of success dies when gore splatters over us as the man who was wounded in the shoulder collapses.

  “Get the ones up in the hills,” Cat yells.

  Although exhausted, I roll my eyes. As if we didn’t have enough problems, a few of our enemies have climbed the slope beyond the open gate. From the higher angle, they can shoot unimpeded into our tiny circle of protection.

  Death isn’t coming from a mad rush of foes. Our last stand is going to die under a thousand cuts of lead.

  Bullets rain downward, blanketing our position with sharp impacts and splatters of debris.

  The woman who let us into the fort gets hit with a volley and lies with blood oozing from her mouth.

  Hot flashes spike into my heel.

  I curse, turning to find a bloody crease through the leather of my boot.

  Cut, cut, cut.

  Furious with the preordained fate, I snap shots up the hill.

  The bullets injure nothing but trees.

  A return wave of fire smashes off the metal pole and the inside of the stone ring, causing more groans from the wounded.

  After finding no more clips on the ground, I roll onto my back.

  My eyes widen at the giant red stain spreading over my chest and stomach.

  “Ignore it. You’re going to get killed before you bleed out.”

  Internal me is right, and I stifle a crazed laugh.

  A bullet pings against the rim of my helmet.

  I jerk sideways, ridding myself of the giddiness. As my fingers fumble for a new clip, I look to Cat.

  There has to be something else we can do.

  She’s too busy dealing with the new threat to notice me, her fingers a blur as she squeezes the trigger and reloads.

  A shot tugs at my trousers, leaving an angry crease along my thigh, while another splats into the already dead man behind me with a squishy thud.

  It can’t end this way.

  Impossibly, the rain of lead gets heavier.

  Blood sprays as someone else goes limp.

  Cat hollers a defiant curse, the word coming out in a long syllable of frustration and rage.

  A rapid crackle of gunfire arrives from behind the fort and spills around the side, going counter to the battle.

  More shooting and a few screams come from the front as the hail of bullets dies.

  Cat says, “Looks like a few others survived.”

  “It’s only one person,” I say.

  “How could you know that? One person couldn’t do that much damage.”

  I have no idea how I know, but I’m right. I push up, risking a peek at the broken gates.

  Figures in red-trimmed uniforms run past, in full retreat.

  Cat squeezes off a couple of shots, killing the final one.

  Ragged shooting erupts up the slope and moves into the trees.

  A moment later, an eerie quiet settles over us.

  Unsure of what to make of the respite, I finish my reload and push the barrel of my rifle over the stones.

  “Hey,” a female voice yells, “in the fort.”

  I glance at Cat.

  She shrugs. “Keep your guard up.”

  “Hey, you idiots in the fort!”

  “What?” Cat screams back.

  A helmet pokes past the broken door.

  I let off a shot, which pings off the wide brim.

  “Okay, I’m killing the next person who shoots at me,” the voice says, furious. “No wait, I’m not going back to zero for killing an idiot.
Instead, I’m going to beat the next person who tries to shoot me within an inch of their sorry lives. You’ll wish you were dead.”

  “Everybody, stand down,” Cat says. As we lower our weapons, she yells to the unknown person, “You can come in now. Nobody will shoot.”

  The helmet floats past the gate, then the end of the rifle holding it appears. After another moment, a woman wearing a blue-trimmed trench coat edges into the fort.

  When no shots are fired, she pushes the gates closed.

  Cat stands as our unknown savior walks to us, her score floating in my head. The hazy digits indicate a super high number. Although I knew she was alone, I never envisioned one person could make so much of a difference.

  “Holy crap, she’s almost a seven,” somebody says.

  Even Cat’s impressed, saying, “That’s the highest score I’ve ever seen.”

  The almost seven, an attractive woman with an oval face and long black hair stops in front of the stone circle. Amazingly, she’s only average height with a medium build.

  As her alert brown eyes bore through us, Cat asks suspiciously, “How come I didn’t notice you before?”

  “I work alone, sweetie.” The last word is said without a hint of affection.

  “Ooooh, I like this one better.”

  “You only like people who are super tough.”

  “No, that’s not true. I like you too.”

  “Okay, listen up,” the almost seven says. “I’m heading to the other fort. You guys stay here and guard the flag.”

  “Why do you get to have all the fun?” Cat asks in a flat tone.

  “Because some people are built to hunt and kill. And others are built to guard flags.”

  Cat snorts and kicks wood planking away to step from the circle. “Right, I’m coming with you.”

  “Sweetie,” the almost seven says coldly, “don’t make me shoot you in the leg.”

  “She’ll do it too,” internal me adds.

  A tense moment passes before Cat realizes what I already know and lets her shoulders slump.

  “Just stay here with your boyfriend.”

  Cat glares at me, saying, “He is not my boyfriend.”

  I frown, hating the entire experience.

  With a final smirk and a gleam of excitement in her eyes, the almost seven swivels and leaves the fort.

  Cat kneels next to me and adjusts my bandage.

  “Thanks.” I smile at her.

  “Is smiling all you can do?”

  “Doesn’t it help?”

  “Swords or bullets don’t care what expression you’re wearing.”

  I have no answer for that.

  Suddenly, the loss of blood and the emotional swings of the day overwhelm me. My head lolls.

  “Hey,” Cat says, smacking my non-bloody cheek, “Mr. Bright Smile, wake up!”

  My eyes flutter open.

  “Stay awake. You’ve almost made it through your first scenario. You don’t want to die, now.” She smacks my cheek again for emphasis.

  I tilt my head to stare at the clear sky and the blue dome beyond.

  Home is a very long way from here.

  And I still have to find my wife.

  While I bring up the image of her framed in the bay window, distant cracks of gunfire roll through the hills.

  Moments later, the golden sparkles flow over my vision.

  As my first scenario ends, Cat smacks my face one last time, which I hope stems from altruism in keeping me awake rather than some sadistic pleasure that comes from being in the Ten Sigma Program for too long.

  The sting of Cat’s final slap leaves as the glows of the prep room materialize. Instead of icy air tainted with blood, my nose fills with the pleasant scents of lemon and honey.

  Although my muscles tremble, there is no discomfort. Mistrusting my senses, I examine the length of my almost naked form.

  Everything is pristine.

  The metal-plated avatar wasn’t lying.

  I force away resonances of the horrible wounds, struggling to acclimate to my new state of health. When the shivering subsides, I switch my attention to the empty chairs.

  Nobody else has returned.

  A gamut of emotions floods through me. Frustration, anger, guilt, fear, sadness, but worst of all, relief.

  Relief from surviving despite all my friends being gone.

  I glare at Saya’s seat. The stupid gung-ho charge got everyone separated. However, his brashness also forced the enemy to spring the trap sooner, which at least allowed me to survive.

  Not understanding how everything could be this difficult, I release a sigh of frustration. What could I say to Jake? Although it’s too late to tell him, his caution was warranted.

  The others come into my mind. Whip and his gestures. Quiet Ann. And Bob, whose only quirk was having no quirks.

  Then there was the sexbot tester, whose name I can’t remember.

  Furious with the fogginess clouding my mind, I glance at Cheri’s chair. I liked her. A lot. She had an etherealness, which was so much different from anything else in this place, and more than anyone else, she understood me.

  Her last words flow through my head.

  “Follow your true love.”

  Can I even save myself?

  Or any of my stories, which now rest with my dead teammates. All those memories, all the acting in the Oriental Garden—all now worthless. Although I hate the selfish notion, somehow, the destruction of my past seems like the worst part of this disaster.

  I should feel worse.

  After a moment, I give up trying to remember who else filled these chairs, but how long will I remember any of them? Or anything about me?

  There is only my original purpose for coming into this program. Cheri was right. I have to find my wife.

  No matter the cost.

  Images of Cat and the almost seven sigma, my improbable saviors, drift into my head. Perhaps gratitude is what I should feel. They’ve survived this hell for much longer than just my single scenario. But, aside from being cold, what makes them different from everyone else?

  Cheri’s last words echo.

  Follow your true love.

  But with my recollections fading and no hope of resurrecting the ones already lost, how will I remember her?

  “A very difficult scenario,” says the tinny voice of Lan.

  My gaze rises to the floating form. I hadn’t even noticed the pop announcing his arrival.

  Reflections from the geometric shapes play off shiny armor as the avatar faces me. “Congratulations are in order. You surpassed my expectations.”

  Once again, the droll voice arrives with a tone that can be interpreted as sarcasm. Too tired to parse the nuances, I ask, “So what happens now?”

  “After a scenario, I give a long-winded debrief about how well everyone has done. And then I give everyone their score increases. However, since you are the only survivor, this speech shall be quite a bit shorter.”

  An urge to take the little avatar and squeeze his armor until it crumples into a twisted ball of condescending British wit spikes inside me.

  But what would that accomplish?

  I sink into my chair with slumped shoulders as Lan starts the debrief by describing the scenario and subsequent trials. When he arrives at the scoring, I poke my head up.

  “Your score increase is five-hundredths of a point to 2.55.”

  “That little?” I say incredulously. “We went through hell out there.”

  “The amount is solely based on your participation. A higher total would be awarded on the basis of more risks taken as well as more contributions to the victory.”

  2.55

  I sigh. Ten sigmas is a long way away.

  “And you’re not very good at this,” internal me states.

  “I’ll get better.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “I don’t think your pessimism is helping.”

  “Well, optimistically, it looks like you’ll be getting plenty of chan
ces to get better.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Doesn’t ten sigmas seem like an impossible goal?”

  “Huh? You want to explain that?”

  “Never mind. If you can’t understand it, how can I explain it to you?”

  “I can understand.”

  “No, I mean, since I’m part of you, if you can’t understand it, then how would I be able to understand it?”

  I shake my head dizzy, trying to rid my mind of the circular reasoning.

  Lan’s metal visor remains impassive as he stares at my wild external gestures from fighting internal me.

  When I glance at him, he says, “Maybe next time will be better. Perhaps you will provide a spine to your new team. You are certainly thick as a plank.”

  Although sounding positive, I wonder if the statement is a subtle form of British humor. “Do you think so?”

  “It is my job to help convince you of your worth.”

  “But, do you think I’ll get better?”

  “It is my job to help convince you of your worth.”

  I glare at the dark slit of his visor, annoyed by the repetition. “I’ll do fine without your help.”

  “Indubitably.” The English accent piles so many irritating layers onto the single word.

  “Are we finished?”

  “Quite. And remember, it is my job to help convince you of your worth. So please call for me if you have any post-scenario issues.”

  After I’m returned to the barracks, sleep eludes me.

  I lean over the side of my bunk and glance through the faint starlight to the places where my teammates should be.

  Ghostly remnants of their voices and stories echo.

  Frustrated, I flop my head on the pillow, staring upward.

  As the minutes pass, my shame of remaining among the living fades.

  I shouldn’t be this callous.

  It must be the acclimation.

  With many of the formerly occupied bunks empty, the space under the domed roof feels too large.

  I squeeze my eyelids shut, hoping to push away the awfulness of the day. Fractured pictures flow past as I struggle to find happy memories with my wife. The first time we met in the computer room, our first date at the Italian restaurant, the first time we made love…