The elevator was out of order, jumping from the sixtieth floor was dangerous, and the fire escape door wouldn't open. It simply wouldn't open, no matter how hard Freya tried to pull the black handle. Wouldn’t even budge. Unable to contain her frustration, Freya kicked the door with her sneaker, and pain shot through her leg.
Only then did the girl notice the black box next to the door—it was a lock. She had to rummage through all her pockets but eventually found a parking card that worked. Elementary, my dear Watson.
The lock beeped, and the fire escape door swung open on its own. Behind it was an ominous staircase bathed in red emergency light. The wind howled dully, reflecting off the walls. Draft from behind made the neighbor's door swing open and slam against the stopper.
Freya cursed under her breath. Well, she had failed her first task—resisting panic.
Just in case, the girl took a step back and peered into the doorway. Inside was an entrance hall with expensive floor tiles.
"Hey," Freya called out, "I'm your neighbor, Freya Akselsen. Are you okay? Is anyone here?"
Her voice echoed, but no one responded. Freya took out her phone, turned on the flashlight, and peered into the apartment, listening. The place was empty, the doorways to the rooms filled with darkness. Her flashlight caught a coat dropped on an armchair.
But her imagination quickly painted the rest. Nightmarish movie plots came to mind involuntarily, and Freya didn't wait for a voice from the darkness to emerge. She closed the door and ran to the stairs.
Beneath her feet, painted in dull red light, lay sixty floors of premium housing. The stairs were white and clean, like bones, and were already swallowed by the impenetrable darkness a couple of feet below, impervious to the red diodes.
And between the flights of stairs, right in the middle, was a black, bottomless pit. Looking into it made her head spin. Freya looked up and saw the same dark shaft above.
From below, someone's voice echoed. Or maybe it was a scream or a door creaking: the shaft distorted and destroyed words. Warm air came from there, too, stirring her hair and rising upward.
Freya began descending.
The steps were uncomfortably high, and her palms stuck to the metal handrails. These stairs were probably convenient for firefighters but not for carrying down the bags. There weren't even ramps for strollers, and Freya thought of a joke. It seemed the building didn't plan to burn or collapse until people learned to fly themselves.
All that remained was to find out where the people had gone. But she didn't have to search long for an answer.
As soon as Freya passed the first three floors and reached the fifty-seventh, someone screamed in horror. They cursed. A flashlight beam burst from below, in the shaft. It smeared across the railing, cast long shadows on the wall, and went out.
And Freya heard something climbing up from the darkness. They were small, quick jumps—every time, something clicked sharply against the concrete. And suddenly, her genetic memory must have awakened in Freya as she realized crystal-clear.
They were claws. Long, thick, deadly claws.
"I didn't take a knife," thought Freya, "what a fool I am."
"Stop!" she yelled, "I have a knife!"
But the clawed jumps only got faster. Freya heard heavy, moist breathing. And it was already nearby.
The girl screamed loudly and fearsome, like a retired rocker, and wielded her bag in front of her as a shield. Lately, she'd been skipping her workouts, but her muscle memory hadn't gone anywhere...
A small creature burst from around the corner—it was racing on all fours up the stairs. It had a pale, sloppy body, a black, wrinkled face, and ears that flapped like rags. Its short legs flung its shapeless bottom up the steps, closer and closer to Freya. Its bottomless eyes glowed red, like lamps in an old radio.
Freya tensed like a string, ready to fight for her life. And then she realized.
In front of her was a pug. A small, fat dog with its tongue lolling out. Its huge, stupid eyes reflected the red emergency light. And it was the dog’s overgrown claws, but far from lethal, that clicked the concrete.
Freya laughed out loud, and the pug froze in horror. It backed away but didn't run. Instead, the pug bulged its eyes even more, folded like an accordion, and opened its mouth.
And it shouted in a high-pitched, squeaky human voice.
"I'M DANGEROUS! DANGEROUS!" its screech was amplified many times by the echo. "I'LL BITE! BITE! TEAR!"
The pug's nostrils flared, and drool sprayed out. But when a stunned Freya stepped forward, the dog's voice cracked.
The pug spun on all fours, stumbled, and fell on a step. And just as nimbly, it ran back, disappearing from sight. Freya could still hear its curses.
Curses came from below as well, in a clear, female voice.
"What a bitch!" There were sparkles: a woman lit a cigarette.
She was two flights below. Apparently, she had been the first to encounter the talking pug. It were her flashlight and swearing that Freya noticed.
The girl ran down to her and heard a metallic click.
"Hey, you!" the woman below called out. "If you're another dog, monkey, or some other crap those damn millennials dragged into the house, you better turn around and go back upstairs! I have a gun! A big kaboom stick!"
"Good Lord, I'm a human!" Freya exclaimed. "Where did you get a gun?!"
"Finally, a human!" the voice was pleased. "Come here, girl."
Now the woman herself came towards Freya, and finally, she saw the voice's owner.
She was a well-off, not-so-young but ready-for-anything lady. Her dry, muscular hands gripped a massive, shiny gun, and she had a red sweatband on her hair, like Rambo. The lady looked dangerous, even though under her hunting vest with ammunition pouches, she wore a purple yoga leotard.
Freya had never seen this lady before. But in elite real estate in the center of Manhattan, tenants don't go to common fairs and barbecues.
The lady waved her gun at Freya.
"I saw a damn orangutan. With a knife and a credit card. Come here, darling."
Freya went around the stair railing and ended up below.
"A talking one?" she asked.
The woman nervously puffed on her cigarette, clamped between her teeth.
"More than you can imagine! Threatened to stab me before I could aim my gun. And then he went into the ventilation." She stepped towards Freya. "And here we are."
Freya glanced at the ventilation, and the woman stuffed her gun into her cleavage and extended a hand to shake. Freya felt the rough calluses on her fingers.
"Susan," said the woman.
"Freya," said Freya. "Freya Akselsen."
“Now let’s go, Freya,” Susan said, giving Freya’s arm a shake, “before the Chinese come chasing after us. Trust me; they’ve got a thing for white women.”
"Chinese?" asked Freya. "Are there any people here at all?"
"You're lucky, so young—and clueless that everyone's in the offices during office hours."
"All the doors are open," Freya explained.
Susan chortled.
"Ah, so everyone's been bingeing those far-out leftist flicks and put in automatic locks. Just in case the apocalypse hits, and the poor critters won't starve but come out to munch on pinecones. And that's precisely what they did," the woman smirked. "Or maybe they had a hunch about what was coming. Wars don't kick off with a snap of a finger, you know.”
With those words, the lady turned off her flashlight, took Freya by the hand, and led her downward.
"Let's go. This ain’t exactly a walk in the park; we'll make it down in an hour. In an hour, everything can flip upside down."
They began their descent.
"Did you receive the text?" Freya asked, "About the NON-nuclear strike?"
"Everyone got it; it's the National Alert System."
"That's not what I meant," said Freya. "If missiles aren't flying at us, then what's that pillar of light? Why are the animals talking?"
"Try not to worry, Freya; there's little we can do right now," Susan told her. "The missile thing is a standard message after all those stories of orgies and murders the Government hid. But the strike, thank the heavens, is not nuclear. Different. You saw the orbital laser yourself, didn’t you?"
"What's that?"
"It's a beam that torches everything in its path, including the electrical grid," Susan explained. "The Chinese have been cobbling it together for three years, under the guise of their space program, to deliver a final blow to the United States. Don't you feel the heat cranking up?"
Susan fanned the collar of her tank top, wafting the scent of Chanel through the stairwell. Her toned chest was speckled with tiny beads of sweat.
So the Chinese were involved. And it was indeed getting sweltering as they lugged their bags downward. Freya regretted not changing out of her business suit. By the forty-seventh floor, they were drenched.
"But that doesn't explain everything. The animals..."
The lady's manners were rather rough around the edges, despite her posh perfume. Susan cut her off, regularly turning to Freya and shooting her glances.
"Psychotronic weaponry. And no, I haven't gone bonkers. Live my long life, rake some capital, and you'll start understanding how the world really works..."
It seemed that Susan was just building up when suddenly a bright light came from below, accompanied by the noise of human voices. Susan let go of Freya's hand.
"At last," she rejoiced. "Rescuers."
Susan took a step to the side, fearlessly grabbed the railing, leaned over it, and shouted with all her might.
"Hey, we're here! Rescuers! Damsels in distress! On the forty-sixth!"
Her voice echoed through the stairwell. And brought the staircase to life.
There were far more people than Susan had realized—they had just been walking quietly, huddled in the shadows. But the magic word "rescuers" broke the silence, and people began crying for help.
"We're here!" a man with a deep voice yelled almost at their feet. "Save us; I have small children!"
"Dear God, we're here, here, on the twentieth!" a woman screamed. "Please!"
"HERE! I'M HERE! I'M DANGER AND WILL BITE!" a pug barked.
A wild commotion erupted. Susan cursed under her breath and started looking for the rescuers below, lying on her stomach on the railing.
That’s why she barely dodged a massive harpoon.
It whistled as it flew upwards from below, disappearing into the darkness, followed by a metallic scraping sound. Small bits of plaster fell from above. Then, with a soft rustling, a long black rope fell in coils, resembling a snake.
It immediately tightened like an arrow. A buzzing sound came from below, similar to the buzzing of a fishing reel—it rapidly approached. It was some kind of mechanism.
Immediately, cries pierced the air, so loud and shrill that the echo distorted them beyond recognition. People became even more agitated, and the stairwell was engulfed in a wild cacophony.
Freya and Susan saw a bright light rising from below. They managed to cover their eyes with their hands just in time to avoid being blinded.
A man in military uniform, wearing a bulletproof vest and a gas mask with panoramic glass, was ascending the rope riding some clever mechanism. He had a megaphone on his belt, a bright flashlight on his chest, and an automatic rifle on his back.
The soldier looked at Freya and Susan through the gas mask's glass without any interest and barked into the megaphone.
"CIVILIANS, GO DOWN! EVACUATION IS UNDERWAY! FOLLOW THE ORDERS OF THE MILITARY!"
He slapped his hand on the control panel hanging from his belt, clearly intending to continue traveling up the rope. Freya leaped to the railing.
"Wait!" she yelled, "Tell us what EXACTLY is happening!"
The soldier didn't answer and started to move up, but then Susan sprang into action. Unlike Freya, she didn't rely on mere words. Instead, Susan jumped up, and latched onto the soldier's boot with her hands, forcing him to halt his ascent. Her muscles under the leotard tensed, and her legs pressed against the railing so hard that they creaked under pressure.
The soldier's motor, grumbling pitifully, came to a halt. He jiggled his leg, trying to shake off, trying to break free from the strong grip.
"LET GO!" he yelled.
"I’ll let you go to hell, sure!" Susan promised. "Talk!"
The soldier clung to the rope with his hands, taking his finger off the megaphone button. Now, his own voice, young and freaked-out, could be heard.
"I don't know anything! I'm just following orders!.."
"Freya!" Susan shouted. "Give me a hand with this guy!”
Freya came to her senses, dropped her bag, and immediately snagged the soldier's other boot.
The soldier tried to resist, but Susan knew what to do. She delivered a fierce blow between his legs, making him tremble and lose all will to fight. Together, Freya and Susan hauled him onto the stairwell platform and plunked him on the floor, roughly pinning him against the railing.
Susan immediately took the soldier's rifle and slung it over her back. To be more persuasive, she whipped out her own pistol and jabbed it directly at the gas mask's glass.
In this position, the soldier had no choice but to comply.
Since the man was no longer struggling, Susan took the flashlight from his belt with her free hand and directed its beam at the tinted glass of the gas mask. On the other side, the woman saw a pair of petrified blue eyes.
Freya seized the opportunity and spoke first.
"Is this war? What's happening?" she asked, adding for emphasis, "I'm a media personality; I've got sixteen million followers!"
Somehow, Susan sensed that the soldier was about to give a dodgy answer and pointed her pistol between his legs. The soldier immediately shook his head.
"No, not war!" he blurted out. "It's a special military operation. Let me go, or you'll face a tribunal!"
Susan cut him off before he could finish.
"Who attacked? Russia? China? Cut the riddles, kid, and talk!" she barked, looming over him. "She's got sixteen million followers, so she'd be the one to trial you!"
This stunt was too bold and crazy even for Freya. Adrenaline rushed to her ears, and if it weren't for Susan's assertiveness, she would have backed down by now. But Susan had her pistol aimed at the soldier's groin, not doubting herself, so backing off now would be the height of stupidity.
Frey dropped her voice and began to snarl.
"What kind of operation? Answer, or we won't be held responsible for our actions!"
"I don't know! And I shouldn't know! I'm just following protocol!" the soldier, faced with two livid furies, started yelling desperately. "Government, secret protocols, you get it?"
"Ugh!" Susan cursed. "Military codes! Time for some interrogation."
"What are these protocols?" Freya pressed, "Show us the protocols!"
The soldier frantically turned to face Freya, seeing her as the more reasonable force. His eyes darted to his breast pocket.
"The commanders were ready for everything! As soon as the satellites disappeared, Brooklyn…"
Susan, reading the signs flawlessly, reached for the pocket, handing Freya the flashlight. She nearly tore off the button, pulling out a perforated sheet, similar to an old-fashioned check.
Susan held it under the soldier's flashlight and began reading aloud.
"Protocol 'Windfall' Class A. Evacuate the government members. Report anomalies in electronics, mechanics, thermodynamics, and time. Follow HQ instructions. Open fire on squads violating the Protocol…"
Freya saw the sheet clearly, and faster than Susan, she skimmed through the instructions, which didn't add up to make sense. After the anomaly protocol was a guide for action in case of gravity loss, a manual for fighting time-traveling enemies, and a protocol for contact with "xenobiotics." Medical assistance guidance for psionic attacks and orientation tactics in nonlinear terrain were also included.
All this to extract an Air Force general and his family from their apartment and escort them to the "Keep" facility.
Freya also clearly saw the order to shoot anyone who "may, through action or inaction, lead to Protocol violation.” Period.
Susan, infuriated by the reading, pressed her pistol into the soldier's groin harder.
"What the hell is this supposed to tell me, you bastard?!"
"We're screwed, Susan," replied Freya. "Let's get out of here!"
"Nowhere to flee!" Susan turned to the soldier. "Where's that damn bunker they're taking the bigwigs to? Which one?!"
But they didn't get an answer. Suddenly, loud bangs came from below. Another harpoon flew up the staircase, but not just one—Freya counted four. Ropes rained down from above.
Freya didn't bother trying to convince Susan or say anything at all; instead, she bolted, leaping four steps at a time. Like a teenager who rang the doorbell of a crazy old neighbor with a shotgun always hanging on the wall. But there was no fun to be had.
"Fuck, Freya!" Susan yelled. "Where are you going?!"
Freya heard a loud thud followed by a rapid patter of footsteps. Susan had swung her pistol, bashing the soldier's head, and took off after her.
The ropes in the stairwell stretched tautly. The people's shouts drowned out the sound of military engines, but it didn't mean the soldiers weren't close by. Susan was bounding stairs behind Freya, approaching.
On the 42nd floor, Freya saw an open fire door and darted through it. At that very moment, three blurry figures zipped up past her. A voice boomed through a megaphone.
"FREEZE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Freya didn't comply and kept running. The soldiers whizzed past her on their ropes. Tear gas guns hissed, and Susan let out a tormented, soul-shattering scream behind her.
Not waiting for her turn, Freya dove through the fire door. The corridor behind the door was bathed in red light. Suddenly, boots stomped, and flashlights shone from below. More soldiers! The girl grabbed the long handle to shut the fire door, but it wouldn't budge.
Suddenly, a gunshot boomed somewhere above her head. The sound echoed through the concrete shaft, smashing Freya’s ears. Woman’s hands suddenly unfused with strength, and she fiercely yanked the handle. Something broke inside, and the fire door slammed shut, hurling Freya into the corridor.
Freya collapsed onto the opulent carpet, rear-end first, stretching on the floor before immediately flipping onto all fours. Scrambling up, she darted around the corner, her knees bent, seeking cover in the elevator alcove. She needed to hide.
The alcove was cloaked in darkness, the faint glow of the emergency red light barely illuminating her. If anyone were to chase her, they'd run right past her.
Freya stuffed her into the alcove and clutched her head, almost groaning in frustration. It was a foolish plan; there was nowhere left to run. The hallways in her skyscraper were short, and the soldiers carried powerful flashlights. Because of this stupid gunshot, Freya couldn't hear if anyone was chasing her: her ears were silenced with a ringing quiet.
The dread in Freya’s chest had constricted to a tight, immovable ball. A haze had descended before her eyes. But there was nothing to do but press her back against the polished bronze of the elevator door and pray that it wouldn't suddenly swing open into an abyss of elevator shafts.
However, as the ringing in her ears subsided, Freya realized she wasn't deaf. It was really quiet around. The clamor on the staircase had transformed into a barely audible whisper behind the sealed door. It was so quiet, in fact, that Freya could hear the soft rustling of a ventilation fan above her head.
No one was chasing her. She took a few steps away from the menacing elevator doors and, with a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall.
Immediately, she chided herself – those who relax before the finish line come in last. She couldn't go back to the staircase. But on the forty-second floor, there were only two massive apartments, and one might have a private elevator with a fire escape.
If Susan was right and compassionate millennials had installed automatic locks for their cats to participate in the apocalypse, Freya could infiltrate the apartment and bypass the soldiers, gunfire, and gas.
And even if the door was locked, Freya had a hairpin and plenty of time to pick the lock. She was confident she could do it. Freya smiled radiantly at her resourcefulness and her body filled with familiar lightness and energy.
Peering around the corner, Freya tiptoed to the first door. It was clear. She grabbed the doorknob and hesitated, tempted to whisper a prayer, hoping the door would open.
Screw superstitions! Freya turned the knob and pushed the door open. It swung wide, a gust of warm, fresh air from the apartment washing over her.
A tall man in black loomed before her, armed and illuminated by a flashlight, standing in the entranceway, mere inches from her face.
But before Freya could scream, the man fell to his knees and bowed his head before her.
"Welcome home, Cutter."