JEREMY ROBINSON
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The man in red looked at his partner. “We’re not going to kill anyone.” “Not today.” “We need a deterrent.” “Or a last resort.” “It won’t come to that.” “How can you be sure?” The man in red tilted his head to the side, looking at his partner. “It’s my job to consider all possible future outcomes. I’ve modeled countless strategies and this is the only one that guarantees a cease to the violence. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that they created this weapon, not us.” “It’s the end of civilization in a bottle,” the man in white said. The man in red peeked up over the vehicle. “Civilizations end so that new ones might rise from the ashes. We already had this discussion. We didn’t start this war, if you can even call it a war. Our people protest peacefully, they attack. Nearly a million dead in the past year. Those who have been freed from the Grind live in hiding. And the rest . . .” He shook his head. “They’re still slaves. And cowards.” “We aren’t killers,” the man in white said. “That’s where you and I differ.” The man in red’s brow furrowed deeply. “I am a killer.” He pointed to the research facility. “They did that, too.” He looked over the vehicle again, his impatience peaking. “You can either join me, or not. Either way, I’m doing this. If you don’t come with me, I’m going to get the access codes another way, and a lot of people are going to die. Today.” Without another word, the man in red tapped a code into a wrist-mounted touch screen. He stood from his hiding spot, ignoring the Alaskan snow as it struck his shoulders and melted. He strode toward the large metal door as confidently as if he were walking up the front stairs of his own home. The man in white chased after him. “What are you doing?” “The cameras are now looped,” the man in red said. “The
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8/12/13 3:36 PM