exactly where it had been when he was last here, bits of it still scattered across the otherwise pristine floor. It felt like life had paused, a glitch in time waiting to be reset once fate had decided which future he would have. He moved quietly but quickly up to where it rested and peered in through the still-jammed-open door of Disposal 9. On the far wall, close to the ground, dark blood exploded violently upwards, not thinning out until at least waist height. There was a matching pool on the floor that smeared slightly towards the middle of the room, but no body. Mo glanced suspiciously around the rest of the space before quietly moving on, forcing himself to be part of the stillness.
Just beyond the sharp bend in the corridor, before the cluster of Disposals 5 to 8, there was another bloody trace. Much less this time, what looked like a hand print next to a small puddle no bigger than an apple, but again nobody. There was an eerie silence and Mo could smell the blood and gun smoke still hanging in the air. He edged further along on the opposite wall to the Disposal Suites, not wanting to trigger any doors for fear of what, or who, might be on the other side.
Each time he came upon a camera, he smashed it swiftly with his wrench. He knew AarBee could track him anyway, but at least with some cameras gone he might be a little less visible once the bots were out.
After the next bend and another camera, Mo reached the first of the Sync rooms. He was amazed that he'd gotten this far without hearing Drones coming towards him. It didn't make much sense, but then again the lack of bodies and the whole of the last few hours was a complete head-wreck. It was weirdly close to one of his recurring nightmares, slipping and sliding down the grease soaked corridors of Echo Farm, trying to run from something but always falling, as the bodies of all those he'd bolted in the last two years lay strewn around every doorway and patch of ground.
Mo let the Sync Room door slide open and dashed in with his wrench held high above his head, but there was no one to fight. Blood was everywhere, on the Dupe trolley and up every wall. Trailing back towards the door he'd come in from he could see a couple of wheel tracks that printed rhythmic red dashes away from a large, glistening pool.
After tugging open a few drawers, Mo found the stems he was looking for and – without stopping to think about it – unwrapped one, before jamming it into the proud blue vein that tracked across the back of his hand. He spasmed from the pain and gripped the sticky trolley with his other hand to settle himself. These things came with an anaesthetic on the other end, but there wasn't the time. Stem inserted, he clicked the small blue button on the top of it and soon his blood – sparkling from the bots like a mineralised mountain stream – began to drip onto the floor.
It took five minutes for the blue light to go out, the longest five minutes of his life, watching the door that led out to the Atrium and listening hard for footsteps. There was still nothing. Maybe they weren't after him after all? Mo thought. Either way, he was clean now, so he would be a lot harder to find, providing he could avoid the cameras.
He crept out of the far door and headed down the wide and bright corridor towards the Atrium. He passed a couple more cameras, but was now so puzzled as to why nobody had come for him that although he ducked instinctively passed them, he left them intact. As the walls grew wider and wider his footsteps began to echo slightly until he finally emerged into the vastness of the arrival Atrium. Furniture was turned over, jackets and shoes were scattered about, and bullet holes tracked across walls and shattered windows, clustering in a frenzy around door frames and pillars where people, perhaps successfully, perhaps not, had tried to shelter from the violent spray.
The warm night-time air was drifting through the main entrance in pine-scented waves that
Just beyond the sharp bend in the corridor, before the cluster of Disposals 5 to 8, there was another bloody trace. Much less this time, what looked like a hand print next to a small puddle no bigger than an apple, but again nobody. There was an eerie silence and Mo could smell the blood and gun smoke still hanging in the air. He edged further along on the opposite wall to the Disposal Suites, not wanting to trigger any doors for fear of what, or who, might be on the other side.
Each time he came upon a camera, he smashed it swiftly with his wrench. He knew AarBee could track him anyway, but at least with some cameras gone he might be a little less visible once the bots were out.
After the next bend and another camera, Mo reached the first of the Sync rooms. He was amazed that he'd gotten this far without hearing Drones coming towards him. It didn't make much sense, but then again the lack of bodies and the whole of the last few hours was a complete head-wreck. It was weirdly close to one of his recurring nightmares, slipping and sliding down the grease soaked corridors of Echo Farm, trying to run from something but always falling, as the bodies of all those he'd bolted in the last two years lay strewn around every doorway and patch of ground.
Mo let the Sync Room door slide open and dashed in with his wrench held high above his head, but there was no one to fight. Blood was everywhere, on the Dupe trolley and up every wall. Trailing back towards the door he'd come in from he could see a couple of wheel tracks that printed rhythmic red dashes away from a large, glistening pool.
After tugging open a few drawers, Mo found the stems he was looking for and – without stopping to think about it – unwrapped one, before jamming it into the proud blue vein that tracked across the back of his hand. He spasmed from the pain and gripped the sticky trolley with his other hand to settle himself. These things came with an anaesthetic on the other end, but there wasn't the time. Stem inserted, he clicked the small blue button on the top of it and soon his blood – sparkling from the bots like a mineralised mountain stream – began to drip onto the floor.
It took five minutes for the blue light to go out, the longest five minutes of his life, watching the door that led out to the Atrium and listening hard for footsteps. There was still nothing. Maybe they weren't after him after all? Mo thought. Either way, he was clean now, so he would be a lot harder to find, providing he could avoid the cameras.
He crept out of the far door and headed down the wide and bright corridor towards the Atrium. He passed a couple more cameras, but was now so puzzled as to why nobody had come for him that although he ducked instinctively passed them, he left them intact. As the walls grew wider and wider his footsteps began to echo slightly until he finally emerged into the vastness of the arrival Atrium. Furniture was turned over, jackets and shoes were scattered about, and bullet holes tracked across walls and shattered windows, clustering in a frenzy around door frames and pillars where people, perhaps successfully, perhaps not, had tried to shelter from the violent spray.
The warm night-time air was drifting through the main entrance in pine-scented waves that
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