11.

In dull horror, Marten crept into the auditorium. He had to walk carefully because water made the floor slippery. Six of the twenty cylinders contained occupants. They floated rigidly; their hands like claws and pressed against the stoppers.

“What…?” Stick couldn’t finish the question. He was pale.

Turbo made retching noises, but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit. The bullet-headed Asian, a gunman by the name of Omi, stared steely-eyed at the scene.

Marten moved to his old cylinder, noting that it was filled with water. He gazed about the auditorium.  For some reason everyone had left. His chest hurt as he visualized what had happened. The water had started again, gushing too fast to pump. Rage gripped him. He stalked to the medical center where Stick yanked open drawers and examined equipment.

“Anything?”

Stick shook his head.

Marten rummaged around and picked up a little black disc. He pressed it against his arm. It beeped as it diagnosed him, a red light winking. It was a medkit, a biomedical-monitoring device and drug dispenser, usually giving Quickheal, Superstim or Hypercoagulin. A pneumospray hypo hissed, using compressed air to inject him with drugs. Marten licked his lips and tossed the kit to greedy-eyed Turbo.

“Oh yeah,” whispered Turbo. He punched in override codes and pressed the disc to his lean chest. Then he moaned pleasurably and shivered.

“Sweet.” Stick drew a long knife out of a drawer and by clicking a switch made it hum. It was a vibroblade, a hideous close-combat weapon. The blade vibrated thousands of times per second, so fast the motion was invisible. The knifeboy’s delight was obvious.

Then they froze. From the nearest corridor, there sounded the pounding footsteps of someone in a hurry.

Marten and Stick exchanged glances hardly daring to breathe. Marten flanked the door, his two-handed grip tight upon the baton. Stick waited on the other side. The sounds came closer and closer. Plastic body armor rattled. Then a guard exploded through the door, a short-barreled gun in his hand. Stick chopped and his knife sang. The guard’s knee disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone. With a scream, he went down. Marten roared and swung. ZAP! The guard’s head flipped back and his helmet went spinning. ZAP! The guard’s chin snapped against the floor as his entire body flopped downward. Rage, fear and hatred drove Marten’s muscles. Zap, zap, zap! He hammered the guard’s head until Turbo and Stick dragged him off.

Marten nodded after a moment. They let go.

Without a word, Omi picked up the dead guard’s short barreled .44 off the floor. He checked the slide and tested its heft. Then he rummaged the dead man for extra bullets.

Stick knelt beside the corpse and began unbuckling the body armor.

“What about me?” complained Turbo.

“The helmet is still good,” Stick said.

Turbo scooped it off the floor, inspected it, put it on and snapped the chinstrap. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” said Stick.

Marten trembled and forced himself to move. He wiped the gory shock rod on the dead man’s clothes. He felt surreal. Hollow. Used up.

Stick said, “Bet I know what happened.”

“Huh?”

“Where everyone went, bet I know.”

Marten focused on him. “Yeah?”

“Highborn! They must’ve finally got here and gone underground. The army needed the cops to help fight.”

Marten nodded. Could be.

“So what now?” asked Turbo, his face twitching in the manner of the over-stimulated.

Marten glanced at the cylinders, at the floaters, at their dull stares. Something in him hardened. He said, “We kill more of them.”