The Very Last Days of Mr Grey (24 page)

Sawyer shook his head. “Whatever. Cover me.” He was such an idiot. He sprinted forward and in one smooth and unbelievable motion scaled the fence. His left foot hit the fence near the bottom, which propelled him upward, whereupon his right foot landed two feet from where the razor wire began and sent him further upward and also slightly over, his head came inches from the evil-looking topping while his had slide between it and pushed himself forward. Then his feet were coming down and the world was coming right sight up again.

When he landed on the other side, uninjured, he looked around, stunned. “Holy shit.”

Private Peters held on for dear life as the M35—a vehicle now much worse for wear after having its windows blown out, but the engine worked; it was just very loud now, inside and out—navigated New York City streets at nearly forty miles an hour. This might not seem very fast, but it was. They were following men running on foot, men who could simply jump over large obstacles like, oh, say cars or trees, and plow through smaller ones like pedestrians or motorcycles. Which they’d done on three separate occasions now—enough to indicate perhaps they weren’t the law-abiding Men in Black they appeared to be.

The M35, on the other hand, had to avoid each of these, and given the fact that the streets were still lousy with civilians, it was a lot to avoid.

And so the vehicle swerved, and so Private Peters was slammed back and forth.

When they came to a screeching halt, everyone had already been holding on so tight, that not a one of them fell.

“The fuck?” Sergeant Grant asked, looking around.

Ehd turned to Fredriks to ask him if he was feeling any degradation, when suddenly Fredriks stopped running and dug his feet in to stop. Ehd turned forward again just in time to see the vehicle he was about to crash into, which had suddenly appeared in his path.

Collision achieved, it flipped once, and Ehd went skidding down the street, occasional sparks flying when his gun made contact with the road.

Fredriks jogged over to him. Men were shouting, but in the confusion of the vehicle suddenly flipping, no one was shouting at them. “Degradation?”

Ehd shook his head. Then he got up and brushed himself off.

“There are many of them now,” Fredriks said, looking around. They were blocked in on both sides. Behind them were mostly apparitions with photo devices, but the ones in front had guns. There were alleys they could take, but who knew what nightmare destinations they led to.

Ehd nodded, looking back. Hundreds, at least. They had more physical effect than any dream creation he’d ever experienced before.

But then, this was the most robust dream world he’d ever seen. Most dreamers they went after had simple dreams, half-filled worlds that were mere sketches of reality. And always the points of power were centered on the dreamer’s avatar.

Not here, not in Mr Grey’s world.

“We should go.”

Guns were trained on them now, the men in the overturned vehicle taking cover behind it and the others circling them.

Ahead of them was clear, however, and there, in the sky, was Mr Grey, fighting his dragon.

It was proof more than anything else that those who dreamed were insane. Fighting with your own mind—while you slept, no less. It was not something the sane did.

Maybe all that Building Mason had done in his life had gotten to him somehow. Ehd did not know, he was no Builder. He was a consul, and his job was to find illicit dreamers and bring them to justice. He always did his job.

The two men took off again, the shouts of “Halt!” and “Stop!” having no effect.

Private Peters had a headache. Some part of his face was bleeding, but he wasn’t sure which.

He’d been thrown right through that shitty canvas that they called a roof when the vehicle had suddenly and violently been knocked on its ass, so to speak.

Some fucking roof. He could build a better roof with his ass.

Whatever had happened, happened fast, and all anyone knew now was that they were getting orders from air support to stop the Men in Black, who were apparently responsible for knocking their vehicle over.

Peters didn’t see how this was possible, since they were on foot, but nonetheless, he now had his gun trained on the two Terminator-like men who were again running away faster than any human ever could. And now, standing in a line with a few other soldiers, staring through the scope of his gun, lacking orders to shoot and thus being impotent to do anything, he thought maybe he was going to get his apocalypse after all. But instead of zombies, it would be robots.

He didn’t know if they were evil, but they sure didn’t give a shit what they destroyed if they weren’t.

He kept his sights on them, waiting for an order to fire.

Then he heard a shot.

He looked to his side at Grant. “What are you doing?”

“Taking command.” Grant fired again. “Dammit.”

Peters turned back, looked through his scope. The men were still running away. Too far now to hit with the terrain in the way. But he was surprised Grant had missed. He was a sniper, and he had an M24 rifle with a really good scope. Peters didn’t know much about scopes, in fact the technical details of everything but how to communicate in an emergency refused to take up permanent residence in his memory, but he did know that it was a good scope. And so he was surprised. He was about to say something about this, but then someone lost their fucking mind, and fired a rocket.

The missile struck at Ehd’s and Fredriks’s feet just as they were about to round a corner in order to get closer to Mr Grey. They couldn’t see Mr Grey, but they could see the dragon, occasionally letting loose bursts of flame and screeching, occasionally blocking out large swathes of the setting sun. They could tell it was fighting him.

But then the ground was blown out from under them and they were tossed to either side, Ehd to the left, Fredriks to the right, into the sides of the buildings. Fredriks actually broke through the wall and went into the building itself—a restaurant, which was abandoned now, and would remain that way until the city died, and an elephant appeared on Madison Avenue.

Ehd had fared better, and got up. He rolled his shoulders. This was the most pain he’d ever felt in someone’s dream. It almost felt real. He wondered if it was how Fredriks had felt when he’d gotten shot.

Sight, sound, smell, touch. It was all there. He could smell the smoke, feel his eyes water, could even taste the dust in his mouth, the iron, the blood—

He spit. Red blood splattered. He used his tongue to probe around. A small spot in his cheek was bleeding.

He looked up, wondering if he could be pulled from here.

But then Fredriks came crashing out of the restaurant screaming, and he did not look at all pleased.

The guardsmen had been closing in on the ‘Men in Black’—the civilians, having finally realized getting up-close footage wasn’t worth their lives, were staying a safe ten feet behind the wall of guardsmen—but all halted when one of the men got up—after taking a rocket to the knees—and spit.

Then a wall exploded, and the other came through screaming.

Oh shit, Peters thought, and then the robot man crashed into him and he was tossed twenty feet away, landing on the edge of a dumpster, before falling in, unconscious.

Fredriks was not happy. His arm was hurt, and now he could feel the bullet wound throbbing again, the one in his actual body, the one he’d impossibly gotten on the cliffs when they had been about to recall Mr Grey.

Enough was enough, it was time to get rid of Mr Grey’s apparitions.

He altered course to the nearest and threw it to the side without looking where it might hit. Then went to the next, which was still shooting at him. The bullets hitting his face were causing him to flinch, and it was seriously beginning to piss him off.

“Uh… sir! He’s coming at us.” The apparition’s voice wavered. Fredriks focused on it.

“Stand your ground! Keep firing.”

“It’s not doing anything. We don’t have the contra code!”

Fredriks ripped the gun from the surprised man’s hand, cast a glance skyward at Mr Grey, grunted, then broke the gun in two. He then impaled the apparition with both pieces of the gun.

He frowned when the blood that hit his face was warm.

Mr Grey’s dreams were indeed detailed.

He saw Ehd leap into the air, over a line of soldiers firing at him, then land behind them. He shook his head. Too flamboyant. A bullet hit his ear and lodged there. It stunned him, and threw him off balance. He stumbled, fell to one knee. He stuck his pinky into his ear and finally managed to pop the slug out.

His finger came away coated in red. He stared at it. It must have been the other man’s blood…

Then he clenched his fists and shouted. “Mr Grey!”

Now technically on another street, Private Peters roused from his slumber. He stunk. Had he—

Then he saw where he was. He groaned. “Shit.” He felt around for his rifle, grabbed it, then made his way to the side of the dumpster and pulled himself up.

And got his head over the edge just in time to see a body flying his way.

It slammed into the dumpster, throwing him back into the garbage, whereupon he smacked his head on the back wall. He smelled vanilla for some reason, and he thought of Cinnabon.

Yum, he thought. Then he blacked out.

Grant, when he got over the shock of being thrown so far he could have sworn he was flying, a rocket stuck right up his asshole, was shocked yet again when he discovered Peters next to him in the garbage. “Private.” He shook the man. Nothing. He felt for a pulse. Strong and regular.

He tried not to disturb the man as he crawled to the other side to make his way out—if Peters had a head or neck injury, he didn’t want to be the one to paralyze him.

He peeked his head over the edge, spotted the two men in suits fighting the others in a hail of bullets, reached for his rifle, and cursed.

He’d lost it. The man had grabbed it, bent the stock, and tossed it to the side before picking Grant up and hurling him to this very spot. At least he hadn’t been stabbed, like… what’s-his-name. Grant couldn’t remember.

He looked again at the two men laying waste to all who stood in their way.

Two very strong men. Bulletproof men. Men who could outrun a Yugo.

Above, he heard jets and helicopters. He glanced at Peters.

Well, he reasoned, someone really should stay here and look after him.

Besides, there were jets.

He nestled in next to Peters, and called in his position.

Julia Chung looked into the camera with a grim look on her face as she described the events going on below her. Then a dragon flew by, blowing flames everywhere, followed closely by what looked to be a man, and then a jet. The view shifted wildly in the resulting chaos.

When things calmed down, she interrupted her previous narration for an announcement: “I’ve just gotten word that civilian airspace over New York City and into much of the rest of the state has been shut down. We’re being told to evacuate the area.” There was a silence as she said something that couldn’t be heard over the air, then, “We’re going to get up higher and keep an eye on things. Stay tuned for the latest.”

“Thanks Julia,” the anchor said when the screen switched back to him. There were two of them now. The other anchor appeared to be dressed far too casually. “We are getting reports that the man fighting the dragon is named Mason Grey, a screenwriter from Los Angeles.”

“Where else?” the anchor in the hideous green shirt joked.

Vague chuckle as the camera quickly cut to him, then away again.

“It’s not clear what relationship he has to the dragon at this point.”

“A troubled one.” This went over even less well than his previous joke, and the camera didn’t even bother to switch views.

“Stay tuned for the latest, we’ll be right back.”

Commercial showing a man in a suit of armor battling a dragon. The dragon roars and belches fire, the knight holds up his shield blocking it and—

Black screen. Colored bars.

New commercial. Puppies running through a field toward a fluffy bear.

The dragon screeched. Very close by.

Ehd and Fredriks stopped their attack and looked up in time to see the dragon, followed by Mr Grey, followed by one of his strange mechanical apparitions, like an airship without the gasbag, fly quickly overhead.

“Dammit.” Ehd tossed the man he had been about to punch aside. “We should go after him. He’s distracting us with these things.”

Fredriks looked around at the groaning soldiers. None were firing at them currently. He nodded.

Then the two took off in the direction of the dragon.

Behind them, the military slowly, wearily, pursued, most who were still able loading up in vehicles and a few staying behind to look after the injured.

The agents had a head start and soon they were out of sight.

Not far from here, a tank rolled over a fence and out into the streets of New York.

“Shit,” the temporary gunner shouted at the driver. “You almost hit that guy.”

“That’s why I went through the fence instead.”

“We’re gonna get in so much trouble.”

“Are you kidding? There’s a dragon! And the tank was just sitting there.”

Sawyer shook his head, swiveling the turret around, getting used to how it moved. It hadn’t exactly just been
sitting
there: it had been running, and for some reason left alone while the soldiers ran back inside for something.

Sawyer and Ethan had taken this opportunity to commandeer the tank.

Ethan knew how to drive one because his dad had shown him. Sort of knew how, anyway.

Sawyer knew how to shoot the gun because he was in the ROTC, and they had taken them out in a tank before, and the guy had explained in great detail how the gun worked. Ethan hadn’t been paying much attention, instead focused on the female tank commander—who had ignored him—but apparently it had stuck, because he now caused it to fire.

The tank swerved as Ethan covered his ears. It took out a parked car, rolling over it and flattening its roof, before he got the sound-blocking comm helmet on and the tank back under control.