the hip, a shot that only worked in movies and sensories.
A chorus of alarmed shouts followed. Skyler figured the man would correct his position and take a more calculated shot next, so he grasped a thick vine that ran horizontally along the old university wall and used it to propel himself up and over the barricade.
He landed hard in a courtyard on the other side, in knee-high wild grass. A plan formed on pure instinct: Move west, into the city. Disappear.
Weaving through the old campus at a full sprint, Skyler reached the wall on the western side in less than a minute, the shouts at his back growing dimmer with each second. He spotted a section of wall that had partially collapsed, and hurdled it without breaking stride. The ground beyond was muddy and he slipped on it, tumbling and rolling. Old wounds complained, a din he knew he could shove from his mind. He’d be a mess in the morning, assuming he survived that long.
A quick glance back proved inconclusive. He heard activity but saw nothing. Looking west, he scanned the low buildings along the city edge, looking for a good place to go to ground.
Behind him came the sound of bulky tires crushing rock and soil, and the high-pitched hum of electric motors.
Shit .
He began to run again. A snap decision made, he raced toward the wide river and the dockyards that lined it.
The realization hit him as he reached the dockyard: The newcomers must be immunes.
They’d arrived in that hodgepodge armada of combat vehicles without any aura towers to protect them. No other explanation made sense. There were deep implications his brain desperately wanted to analyze, but the roar of tires on the tortured road behind him renewed his focus.
Skyler raced through an open gate and down a steeply sloped asphalt road that led to trampled shore. The murky Rio Guamá stretched more than a kilometer wide here, still swelled by the rainy season. A line of trees on the horizon marked the far shore, too far to swim. On this, the northern side, long wooden docks stretched out fifty meters over the water, as far as Skyler could see. Two- and three-story warehouses, all broken windows and weathered walls, backed the crumbling structures.
Corpses of watercraft filled the spaces between docks. Many were cargo ships and flat barges, faded logos of international produce companies still visible on their sides. The rest were smaller, recreational, likely borne down the fast river over the years only to snag here on the piers. Amassed around the boats were islands of trash, dead trees, and other debris. The smell of mold, dead fish, and rotting vegetation permeated everything and churned his stomach.
Skyler slowed when his feet met the wooden slats of the dock. Many of the boards were black and rotten, and he guessed the massive vehicle chasing him would fall right through. He chanced a glance back and saw the beast careening down the ramp he’d just traversed. Knobby tires under an angular black shell of riveted steel. An anti-riotcar, he guessed. It looked like it had been painted black recently, with hints of an FNSP logo—national police—underneath. A shielded turret topped the vehicle, and Skyler could see someone’s helmet behind the slotted plate. The gunner struggled to keep his aim as the vehicle careened down the ramp.
Skyler angled toward a gap between warehouses just as the buzz from the chain gun shattered the quiet of the shore. Shards of rotten wood filled the air around him. Skyler covered the sides of his face with both arms and high-stepped the last few meters until he’d safely moved behind the building.
His heart raced, blood pulsing in his ears. His breaths came in short bursts as the rush of the narrow escape swelled through him. Skyler vaulted himself over a stack of blue plastic fruit crates and kept running, angling toward the wall of the next building over. He came to an open door and took a glance in, only to find it a horrible rotting mess. Rats were everywhere,
A chorus of alarmed shouts followed. Skyler figured the man would correct his position and take a more calculated shot next, so he grasped a thick vine that ran horizontally along the old university wall and used it to propel himself up and over the barricade.
He landed hard in a courtyard on the other side, in knee-high wild grass. A plan formed on pure instinct: Move west, into the city. Disappear.
Weaving through the old campus at a full sprint, Skyler reached the wall on the western side in less than a minute, the shouts at his back growing dimmer with each second. He spotted a section of wall that had partially collapsed, and hurdled it without breaking stride. The ground beyond was muddy and he slipped on it, tumbling and rolling. Old wounds complained, a din he knew he could shove from his mind. He’d be a mess in the morning, assuming he survived that long.
A quick glance back proved inconclusive. He heard activity but saw nothing. Looking west, he scanned the low buildings along the city edge, looking for a good place to go to ground.
Behind him came the sound of bulky tires crushing rock and soil, and the high-pitched hum of electric motors.
Shit .
He began to run again. A snap decision made, he raced toward the wide river and the dockyards that lined it.
The realization hit him as he reached the dockyard: The newcomers must be immunes.
They’d arrived in that hodgepodge armada of combat vehicles without any aura towers to protect them. No other explanation made sense. There were deep implications his brain desperately wanted to analyze, but the roar of tires on the tortured road behind him renewed his focus.
Skyler raced through an open gate and down a steeply sloped asphalt road that led to trampled shore. The murky Rio Guamá stretched more than a kilometer wide here, still swelled by the rainy season. A line of trees on the horizon marked the far shore, too far to swim. On this, the northern side, long wooden docks stretched out fifty meters over the water, as far as Skyler could see. Two- and three-story warehouses, all broken windows and weathered walls, backed the crumbling structures.
Corpses of watercraft filled the spaces between docks. Many were cargo ships and flat barges, faded logos of international produce companies still visible on their sides. The rest were smaller, recreational, likely borne down the fast river over the years only to snag here on the piers. Amassed around the boats were islands of trash, dead trees, and other debris. The smell of mold, dead fish, and rotting vegetation permeated everything and churned his stomach.
Skyler slowed when his feet met the wooden slats of the dock. Many of the boards were black and rotten, and he guessed the massive vehicle chasing him would fall right through. He chanced a glance back and saw the beast careening down the ramp he’d just traversed. Knobby tires under an angular black shell of riveted steel. An anti-riotcar, he guessed. It looked like it had been painted black recently, with hints of an FNSP logo—national police—underneath. A shielded turret topped the vehicle, and Skyler could see someone’s helmet behind the slotted plate. The gunner struggled to keep his aim as the vehicle careened down the ramp.
Skyler angled toward a gap between warehouses just as the buzz from the chain gun shattered the quiet of the shore. Shards of rotten wood filled the air around him. Skyler covered the sides of his face with both arms and high-stepped the last few meters until he’d safely moved behind the building.
His heart raced, blood pulsing in his ears. His breaths came in short bursts as the rush of the narrow escape swelled through him. Skyler vaulted himself over a stack of blue plastic fruit crates and kept running, angling toward the wall of the next building over. He came to an open door and took a glance in, only to find it a horrible rotting mess. Rats were everywhere,
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