Resist by Tracey Martin

backpack. We were all fully dressed in bed, and we’re all ready to go in seconds. Even Kyle is, and now that I know his history, I understand why he’s always ready to run.
    â€œWe’ll figure out how later,” I tell him, slinging my pack on my shoulders.
    I kick an empty shopping bag aside, wondering how the next few minutes are going to go down. If I can figure out RedZone’s plans, I can figure out how to counter them. So why kill the electricity? How do they intend to keep this attack on us contained? Are the people in the parking lot going to start shooting when we leave? The problem with this motel room is that there’s no secondary exit.
    Malone wants us back. Not dead. I’m missing something, surely.
    Wading through my thoughts is like trekking through sludge. My head feels thick and my eyes heavy. How long has my hand hovered by the doorknob?
    Gas—the answer is obvious. I can’t smell it. Can’t see it. And it’s not a bad plan. They’ll knock us out so we can’t fight, and knock everyone else out so they don’t see what’s going on. It wouldn’t be the first time some of Malone’s goons have drugged me, nor the first time RedZone’s gassed innocents to get at their targets.
    All I have to do is reach a little higher, open the door and let in the outside air. But my hand is a lead weight and my eyes are closing. Behind me, no one else moves or speaks either. Whatever this stuff is, Kyle’s no more immune to it than we are.
    Once, I thought RedZone wanted us to be invincible. Indestructible. How stupid I was then. You don’t create a weapon without a way to disarm it, and lately, I’ve been discovering Malone has a lot more ways to disarm us than I’d ever realized.
    Thinking about Malone and what he’s done to us provides me with just enough energy to press down on the door handle. The door opens a crack, pauses, then swings open a few more inches.
    Cole stands there, looking confused. “Why are you taking so long?”
    I stumble out without explanation. The fresh air flows over me, and I breathe deeply, trying to clear my lungs. Bullets be damned. No one’s started shooting at Cole yet, so I don’t think we’re in danger that way.
    He catches me as I gasp for air. “What’s going on?”
    â€œGas. Get them out.” I grasp the closest support column and seek out the cars while my head recovers.
    What I find isn’t good. The cars are empty.
    Before I can ask Cole where their occupants went, footsteps pound up to the second story. My hand tightens around the gun, and I take what cover I can find by the post.
    Behind me, my unit members are coughing, gulping down the air. Cole’s soothing voice is a whisper on the breeze. I want to make sure Kyle is okay, but all my attention is on the person—or thing—approaching. And if one is approaching from this stairwell, there must be more coming from other stairwells. But I can’t do anything about it except hope my unit recovers quickly.
    Then our attacker is here, climbing the last few steps so fast it appears in front of me all at once. Even ignoring its super speed, something in its movements are too perfect to be fully human. Something about its face is too blank.
    It’s a CY—one of RedZone’s earlier creations. If it’s fair to call me an augmented human, the CYs should be called humanized machines. There’s less human in them than tech, and I don’t simply mean in their heads, though that’s part of it.
    My stomach drops, but I raise the gun with steady hands. “Get back.”
    I don’t want to cause a scene any more than Malone does. Getting the cops involved, having my face possibly flashed all over the news and online, won’t help the situation.
    Something crashes behind me. Another CY has landed on the second floor. Vaguely, I’m aware we’re being boxed in, but I stare