Kill Switch: Chapter 28
Run Like Hell
X slams into me, his shoulder boring into my hip, and we hit the ground just as the missile whizzes over our heads and blasts into the stage, the wood bursting into flames, the sacrificial goat searing to a crisp.
“Get up!” X yells. “And run like hell!”
I scramble to my feet. “Where’s Yide?”
The crowd is swarming in all directions. Screams zigzag through the tat tat tat of The Withouter Hunter’s machine gun. “Yide!” I yell.
A heatwave washes over me as another missile slams into the stage. The wooden frame collapses. The flames scourge the dry land.
X grabs my wrist. “She went this way. Come on.”
We dash through the destruction, bullets flying around us. A drone buzzes past my shoulder before darting into a cloud of smoke.
I trip over a tent stake and hit the ground. X scampers around a pile of fallen bodies, and I realize, with horror, that he and I are the largest targets in the crowd. I turn over. Something falls on top of me. I move beneath the weight. Warm liquid coats my face. I wipe my cheek. Look at my hand. The warm liquid is blood. I wiggle free from the weight and find myself facing a cratered face with no eyes and no mouth, just a bunch of exposed bone and brain. I’m too terrified to scream. A bullet whizzes over my head. Tat, tat, tat. The weapon cart groans closer, the tracked treads clodhopping over rocks and lawnchairs. The Withouter Hunter stands atop the tank, blasting away. He empties another clip before turning to his weapon cart. He talks directly to a drone hovering in front of his face.
“This is one gnarly collection of Withouters,” he half-whispers. “Their leader just sacrificed an animal in typical Withouter fashion. It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” He leans into the drone. “Now that I’ve neutralized the threat, all I need to do is sweep the area for any lingering terrorists.” He hops off the tank and lands on the ground with his signature first person shooter gun, the lens of the mounted CCTV camera catching in the moonlight.
Doubtless the grainy night vision footage of his gun is livestreaming on the feed right now, all The Withiners liking and commenting, sharing and following. I’ve seen enough episodes to know what’s about to happen. This is the suspenseful part of the segment, the hushed interval between the initial explosions and the scorched earth finale. Any sign of movement will be answered with a bullet. It’s tempting, of course, to run, but I know my slow ass will never make it. Someone groans, and The Withouter Hunter crooks his neck. He approaches.
I’m so exposed, just laying here like some kind of ginormous possum. Once The Withouter Hunter spots my roided muscles, I’m dunzo. There’s nobody The Withouter Hunter hates more than an inbetweener. I’ll be doxed, cancelled, executed, not necessarily in that order. Mr. Vonn Senior will put out a statement, distancing himself from his wayward son, Vonn 19, who showed so much promise before falling into the wrong crowd in The Vacuum. A cautionary tale, that’s all my life will signify after The Withouter Hunter puts a bullet in my head – eat your goo, kids; stay away from The Vacuum; and never, under any circumstances, venture out of The Within, or else you might end up like Vonn 19, who died like a dog on livestream, forsaken and forlorn, abandoned by the terrorist group to which he pledged unwavering fealty.
At least, that’s how the PR report will read.
Idiotically, I half-scootch behind the nearest tent rope, as if my hefty frame can somehow dissipate behind a two-inch strand of jute. What a farce. Dirt crackles beneath The Withouter Hunter’s combat boots.
“As much as terrorists deserve to suffer,” he whispers, “The Withouter Hunter lives by a noble creed, which means that even the most depraved Withouters are entitled to a quick and painless death at the hands of…” – he clicks a button on his belt, cueing his theme song – “The Withouter Hunter!” He kicks the cratered face. “Oh yeah, looks dead to me,” he says, his observational skills as acute as ever.
He’s just a few feet away now. The flashlight on his first person shooter creeps over the field of bodies.
“Wait a second,” he says, “I’m getting word from command. Three Withiners were spotted on the drone footage. Command is looking into the identities of these inbetweeners as we speak, so stay tuned, and, in the meantime, I’ll be keeping an eye out for any rolls, because The Withouter Hunter gives no quarter to inbetweeners. It disgusts me, The Withiners among us who want to take away our efficient life of productive pleasure…”
I roll over, lift up the bottom of the tent, and slip inside.
Pixel by pixel, my eyes adjust to the dark. Shapes form. The outline of a cot. The wooden beams. The stove.
It’s more or less the same layout as my tent.
The flap swishes open. The Withouter Hunter’s flashlight sweeps over the cot.
“Don’t forget to like and subscribe,” he says.
I crawl as quietly as possible toward the stove, trying to time my movements to the gruff voice of The Withouter Hunter. Luckily, I’ve seen his show enough to know his cadence, his rhythms of speech, his tendencies toward self-promotion.
“When I started this channel,” he says, “I only had a few viewers, but over the course of the past few years, I’ve gained thousands of followers, and I’m very grateful to all of you watching at home. You are the lifeblood of this channel...”
I reach the stove. My hand searches in the dark. The jagged bark of a log, the handle of the poker…
“And now,” The Withouter Hunter is saying, “I’d like to say a word about our benevolent sponsor, Vonn Industries. For decades, Vonn Industries has delivered top-class productive living and efficient pleasuring to those in The Within. The company was founded by Mr. Vonn Senior, whose vision of a painless world has led to the most prosperous civilization of all time...”
I shed my robe and roll toward the nearest wooden beam.
“If it weren’t for Vonn Industries,” The Withouter Hunter says, “we would all be living like these pathetic Withouters, whose days are full of unproductive inefficiencies, sheer boredom, and needless suffering. If only these terrorists had sense enough to descend to The Within, where everyone is strongly encouraged to gorge themselves on goo while they work cush nine-to-five jobs in the comfort of their own persies. Just imagine, living without dNet, living without pharmas, living without sexSimuls, and doing so voluntarily! How…boring.”
The Withouter Hunter shines the light in the direction of the stove. Then he starts to move toward it. His silhouette is offset by the glare. His synth is rasping about a discount code for some premium Vonn Industries jumpsuit with the latest filter updates.
The Withouter Hunter takes a step forward.
“Now, now, now,” he says, “looky what we have here.”
He unloads his first person shooter. The bullets rip into my robe.
His laughter is gruff and deep-chested.
“Die, simul, die!” He yells.
I stand, move from behind the wooden beam, and run toward him.
I dig the tip of the poker into his back, right beneath his shoulder blade. The metal catches against something hard, and I twist.
The Withouter Hunter lets out an awful gurgling sound before collapsing forward.
The first person shooter drops to the ground, the lens of the CCTV camera pointed at his face.
His legs spasm. I dig the poker in further, twisting and turning. The spasms stop, the breathing. I let go of the poker, which remains lodged in his back, sticking up like a wooden stake in a vampire’s heart.
If I were hella clever, I would have said something snarky, like, don’t forget to like and subscribe, but in truth, I’m way too rattled to say anything, so instead, I put on my bullet-pocked robe, burst out of the tent, and weave my way in and out of the corpses, running toward Lookout Mountain.