Examination

I’m screwed.

         There’s still six of them left and I’m all out of energy. My ammo’s almost gone and my finger aches from the constant vibs that rocket through my hand every time I pull the trigger. I dive for the table, managing to avoid the wire that I know is set there. I’ll use it later; it’s probably sprung to a ‘nade, ready to go off in my face if I brush against it.

         Four bullets left. Six lawmen. Visors down and blazing away like there’s no tomorrow. Hell, maybe there isn’t. I pop out of cover and plant a round in the shoulder of the dude carrying an auto. It’s like watching ballet. He twists to the left, his finger still hard on the trigger, spraying two of his companions with hot metal splinters, and then he falls, clutching his shoulder. The ones he shot are probably dead, or on their last legs. No need to waste a bullet on them. That leaves me three for three, but they’ve got my position fixed. I toss an empty clip over towards them – sends them running for cover until they realise nothing’s happening – and launch myself out from behind the table, spinning into cover a split second later. Not quite fast enough. I feel a splinter round buzz past my shin and then my leg explodes in agony. The primary round buries itself in the concrete wall behind me, but the comet trail of red hot metal it drags in its wake has slapped itself onto my leg like some kind of obscene parasite. I bite back the pain. I’ll deal with it later.

         I haven’t slept since I escaped. That’s starting to rub now, but if I think about it too much I’ll drop. I’ve come too far for that. I check my angles, scoping the room through reflections in a dead LCD. They’re moving up on me, must have guessed that last shot counted. Guess again. I go low, aim high. Always aim for the belly; guns usually kick up if they’re going to kick, and depending in how weak your wrist is, you’ll hit them in the chest, neck or head. Plus, getting gutshot is no one’s idea of a holiday. You see a colleague with one to the stomach, you lose focus. I’ve been there, so I know all about losing focus. In fact I don’t just know it, I’m counting on it. It almost works too.

         Maybe if I was less tired, if I had another gun, or a flashbang, anything, I’d be good. But no. The one I shoot goes down, hands flailing at the hole in his chest. The second guy makes a good old fashioned rookie mistake; he takes his eyes of me. I love cops, they never disappoint. I make him a headshot, just to prove the point. They shouldn’t send rooks after a guy like me. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t sensible. But the third guy isn’t green. He’s a beefy SOB with a com-scat pointed at me. I have only one option. I go for the table, just as I hear the click of the trigger. Then there’s the com-scat sound.

         I reckon I’ve had just about every gun ever made fired in my direction, at one time or another. Scariest is the ol’ faithful flamethrower. The sound they make turns you into an animal, and all you can do is run. Fire scares even the beast in me. But a combat scattergun, known in common parlance as a com-scat; well that’s just distinctive. You hear the roar as forty eight lumps of metal come flying out the end of this thing, each one .5 of a gram. They’re tight together when they come out, but then you hear the whine, and you know that they’re breaking apart, no longer magnetised. The just under an ounce of metal is buzzing all around you like killer hail. Then you’re dead, or really, really lucky.

         The roar comes just as I get to the table. For a few seconds I think I’m going to make it. Then I remember the wire. There’s a weird heat on my face, and the whine and buzz of the com-scat round are lost in a blizzard of fire and smoke. I can’t feel my legs and I think my ears are bleeding. My vision’s gone, replaced by pink and green smears pulsing on my retina. I’m screwed.

         When my eyesight starts to blur back into order, the big guy with the scattergun is standing over me, smiling. I try to spit at him but my mouth’s so full of dust I just end up coughing. The other cops flicker and vanish. Sims. I should have known. Too many rookie mistakes and visors down. Every cop knows, you never burn your peripheral. I can hear again, but I only catch the tail end of a tannoy voice.

         “…corporal, or rather Sergeant. The convict is down and with minimum losses to civilian life. Complete the mission and return to the examination hall for your written assessment results.”

         I start to laugh. A sim. No idea when they started it. Don’t even know if I’m real, or just programmed to think it. Maybe I’m not even a criminal. Maybe I’m just programmed to be contumacious, a standardised dissident existent within the system. Hell, why do I only start thinking about this kind of thing when I’m dying. The effects of reality, or some com-sci whiz kid’s sick idea of a joke. The sergeant looks down at me. He looks pleased, but guilty too.

         “Sorry dude,” he says “you were a real sport back there.” Then I’m looking up the barrel of the fourth scariest gun I’ve ever heard.

Click.

Roar.



Everything fades.