Lab Rat part 57

Posted: March 16, 2011 in Fiction, Test Subject

I need to get out of the middle of downtown. I hear the sound of another helicopter, but I’m too low to find it. The rockets are catching up again, so I bank hard left around a corner, then immediately roll right around another. Lifting things big enough to set off the warheads… I have an idea. It’s something that the doc told me absolutely never to do. I pressed her for reasons, but she couldn’t give me anything specific. Or maybe she just wouldn’t. I can hear her echoing from my memory: One at a time. Never more. Energy has to come from somewhere. I think about having to be scraped off the floor of the Blast Room. I think about what my life would be like if I got hit with a fucking missile. Like so many things these days, there isn’t even a decision to be made. I hit the button on the injector.

My arm burns, but it’s a new kind of pain. Much more intense than usual. My vision shimmers. My ears ring. The wind tearing at my face suddenly feels icy, as though I was wet. I gasp. I’m not getting enough air. I clench my teeth and clamp my eyes shut. I open my eyes again just in time to only graze a traffic lamp. I look back. The rockets are still there, but they are wobbling slightly in the air. Things are lifting into the air in my wake. Parked cars lift on shocks, then slam back down on the pavement again as I fly away. I roll over onto my back for a second. Not everything is falling again. A thin cloud of debris is following me and my explosive pursuit. It gets thicker when a mailbox rips free of the sidewalk and starts chasing me. I can see dirt, weeds, candy wrappers, a cinder block… I roll over and take a hard right. I fly too close to a building and an end table comes smashing out of the window and soars after me.

I check the label on the cartridge I just dosed myself with. I go through the checklist of number and letter codes. Any other time, I’d be grousing about how Taryn won’t just write what something is supposed to do on the label, but recently her paranoia doesn’t seem so crazy. I’m having a hard time thinking clearly, but I think this was in the same category as flight and the relative gravity thing. I look back at the gathering storm of junk behind me. My best guess? The debris is being pulled by my own gravity. I concentrate and fly faster. I really don’t want to sweep up anything living in this, but I think I have my solution. My left arm continues to burn.

We are about to experience a communications brownout. I’m going to be at Gulf Wars. I need to go hit something and there are a thousand people down there waiting to oblige me. I’ll be back on Monday or Tuesday with the further adventures of Asher. I need to unclamp this vice around my chest. I need to recharge my spirit. I need to fucking relax. Right now, though, I need to sleep. I have some serious driving ahead of me.


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