Musílkova 27, Prague, Czech Republic
November 30
The Healer’s suit was humming softly as the snow melted on his shoulders. He watched the building across the street, a stark white structure almost trying to blend into the cold wintry afternoon. The lights were all on, but there was no motion from inside.
Beside him, Anouma was shivering, her winter jacket atop her white coat, but neither warm enough to fight off the breeze.
“You will stay here,” he said to her, blunt and brief.
She looked at him, squinted. She seemed to see right into him, and he looked away as if to stop her. She shook her head.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’ve got to go with you. I need to stop you from killing any more innocent people.”
“It could be dangerous,” he countered.
“Not if I do the talking,” she said. “If it were up to you, everything would be a bloodbath. Let me try.”
Silence. He stood beside her and the snow continued to fall.
“Fine,” he said bitterly, and started across the street, aware of her following close behind.
They reached the main door and he reached to knock, but she moved him aside, out of sight, and knocked on the door herself. He stared at her, warning, but she kept her arms tightly locked behind herself, watching the snow, waiting.
He heard the dead bolt unlock. A tentative noise. And then, a pause, a quiet scraping of metal on the door. Anouma didn’t notice it, kept a pleasant, hopeful smile on her face. But the Healer knew. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, shoved her to the side, and as the door opened, he grabbed the gun that peeked through the opening. With a solid pull, he found his mark: he pinched a gloved hand so hard it spasmed and dropped the weapon.
Anouma fell to the ground just as the Healer spun around, letting go the door and giving it a swift kick, straight into the face of a guard, who fell backwards into the hallway, his nose broken and gushing blood.
The man, stunned and disoriented, reached feebly for his second weapon as the Healer marched forward, stepping on his right arm, and then punching him squarely in the face. The man’s head hit the ground with a thud, and his eyes rolled back into unconsciousness.
The Healer looked back to Anouma, scowled beneath his mask.
“Wait outside. I must deal with innocent people.”
He walked past his first target, flexing his hurt shoulder as he made his way down the hall. It hurt, but burned in a way that pushed him forward.
As he came to the first door, on his left, he saw on the frame the quick movement of a shadow. Without losing his pace, he leapt forward into a roll, fast and low, and his machete swung out in time to catch another guard’s arm in the middle as they reached out to fire. The arm wasn’t cut clean off, but it hung uselessly, and the guard screamed loudly, fell down into the doorway.
The Healer noticed, just in time, the accomplice inside the room; another roll helped him dodge a wide shotgun blast. He spun his weapon around in his hand, his back to the wall, out of view.
The first guard, on the floor, was choking now, having cried himself into a daze. The Healer heard a quick inhalation, and the second man leapt out of the room, gun firing blindly, hoping for a hit. The Healer ducked down, pushed into the attack; he collided with the man, shoving him into the wall, and then hit him with his elbow, knocking some teeth out and sending the enemy sprawling.
The gun skidded down the hall, out of reach, and the Healer kicked the side of his head with a heavy boot. He hit the wall, left a mark of blood.
The Healer had just enough time to duck into the side room before a round of automatic weapons fire sprayed where he’d been standing. Inside, two large tables stood against the far wall, a collection of metal chairs, some beverages scattered around. He noticed the light switch next to him and flicked it downward, disappearing into the darkness.
The shadows of the new assailants slid towards him, becoming sharper and sharper as they closed in. He darted across the room, upended one of the tables, and slid it towards the door, covering the opening. In a second, the table shattered in a dozen places, wood chips tossed wildly by bullets. The Healer ducked around the other side of the door, out of view, silent.
The light from the hallway shone through the holes in the table, streaks through the dusty air, and for a moment, all the Healer could hear were the pained gasps of the bleeding guard outside. Then a hit, a crunch, another hit, and the table started to move. Another pause, and the Healer turned his machete around again, backhanded, and pressed himself against the wall.
A kick now, and this time the table slid into the room, and a rectangle of light hit the far wall, framing the form of a guard whose gun was aimed the wrong way. The Healer swung around, catching the man in the chest with his blade; the man jerked violently as the impact ended his life. Without a pause, the Healer moved forward, as the wood behind him exploded, gunshots hitting the back wall harmlessly.
The Healer pulled the dead man’s gun from his hand, came round the corner so fast the second guard had no time to react. The flow of bullets hit the guard ruthlessly in the chest, and he dropped to the ground, his face still in a state of shock.
A quick movement later, the Healer was on the other side of the door again, watching bodies pile in front of his exit.
He flicked the light on. Paused. Then off.
He listened, heard nothing. Staggering silence. He looked down at the man with the severed arm, saw he was looking back around the corner, his whimpering all but stopped, his breathing calm. Emboldened.
The Healer grabbed him by his jacket, and with a pained grunt, yanked him out of the doorway and into the room. The man screamed hysterically, his arm nearly coming off; at least one set of boots outside pounded loudly, coming to his rescue. The Healer held the man close to him, and then, trying to think past his pain, threw the man out into the hallway.
A barrage of gunfire shot out and sprayed the poor wretch with bullets, and he bounced off the wall and onto the ground, dead before he could continue his screaming. The Healer used the moment of confusion to point the stolen gun round the corner and fire in an arc, and he heard the quick thuds of hits, grunts, yelps, and then heavy thumps as bodies landed on the ground.
He pulled his arm back into the room, stayed tight against the wall, held the pain in his shoulder at bay. There were no sounds but the ringing in his ears, the whining noise he couldn’t escape. His suit was warning him, warning him to calm down.
“Are you alive?” called Anouma, somewhere in the distance.
He paused.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
He heard the sound of tentative footsteps.
“They’re all dead,” she said, voice trembling.
He carefully walked into the hallway again, saw the damage all around; Anouma standing by the front door, just beyond the first sentry, stalled by the sight of so many bodies. He nodded to her painfully.
“You should leave,” he told her. “They are not interested in talking.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, and she stepped away, back outside.
* * *
Crew hit the brakes too late, and the car skidded sideways, slamming sidelong into the dark sedan, sending the two of them sliding on the ice, until the sedan came to a rest just inches from the side of a building. When the cars stopped, Crew threw himself out, chest puffed and angry.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted. “Learn to drive, you maniac!”
“Me?” yelled Sobotka, kicking her own door closed, Pyotr cuffed in the back seat. “What kind of idiot speeds around in these conditions?”
“It’s November!” Crew blustered. “It’ll melt!”
Sobotka laughed, checked her car for damage. It was dented lightly along the side, but otherwise fine. The Aston-Martin was somehow in pristine condition.
“Nice car,” she cracked. “where you going so fast?”
Crew checked the house numbers, frowning. He settled on the one Sobotka’s car had nearly crashed into. He motioned with his chin.
“This one right here. You?”
Sobotka frowned, checked back to Pyotr, then back to Crew.
“Same.”
Crew cackled madly, doubled over from the effort, while Sobotka scowled.
“Oh this is rich! So what, your kid is teamed up with my Healer or something?”
Sobotka shook her head. She was about to speak when the side door to the building opened, and into the street came Eva, her mother, and an incubator. They made it a few steps before Eva noticed Sobotka and Crew, arms folded, obviously amused at their own good luck.
Eva set the incubator down, held her mother upright.
“This isn’t what it looks like!” she pleaded.
“Oh, then you’ve got to tell me what it is!” Sobotka cackled.
“Found your mother, I see,” said Crew, nodding to his partner. “Good luck, that.”
“Yes indeed,” said Sobotka gravely.
Eva looked behind them at the running car, saw Pyotr’s face pressed close to the windshield, trying to spy. She sneered at them.
“How’s your snitch working out?” she said bitterly.
Sobotka grinned.
“Not the best snitch, but he’ll do,” she sneered. “I think you and your mother have some big things to explain to us. Like where you’re hiding your boyfriend, and how to stop the outbreak at the hospital.”
Eva backed up, then heard the sound of crashing glass, and a second-storey window in Daniels’ compound broke outwards. A man in a black suit flew backwards and down, down into the windshield of the car, cracking it horribly. Shards of glass stuck out of his already-mangled body, and he crumpled there, blood seeping out.
Crew, Sobotka and Eva all looked at the dead man in shock.
“Thank god I didn’t park there,” Crew said.
Crew and Sobotka looked back to Eva, then the window, then back to Eva again, exchanged glances.
“I think you want to check in there first,” Eva offered.
“Hell yeah,” said Crew, turning and running back to the front of the building.
“We’ll be in touch!” called Sobotka, following her partner with her gun drawn.
Eva paused for a moment, looking at the man on the car, then picked up the incubator and pushed onward, back to home.
