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I didn’t stop. At ground level sat a long, narrow window that five or so years ago I’d been just able to shimmy through. It had been boarded up from the inside with the same gray wood. Running, I leveled my gun and shattered the window with two careful shots and then dived for it, wincing in anticipation of a dozen deep gashes from the jagged glass. I wasn’t disappointed. The wood gave like cardboard, tearing from the inner wall with a high-pitched squeak, and I managed to get my head and neck through without tearing open something vital, wriggling through more easily than I remembered, cutting myself deeply on my arms and thighs. It seemed to take forever to pull myself through as I envisioned being shot in the ass-a perfect way for me to go, I thought: Avery Cates, world’s greatest Gunner, shot in the ass while running away from his enemies.

Dropping farther than I remembered to the cold concrete floor, I lay there panting, a gurgling chuckle that mutated into more coughing. Something damp slowly soaked into my pants.

Shit, I thought, I’m fucking dying.

It didn’t matter-the real question wasn’t how long I had to live, but how long I had before I was too sick to do anything. I rolled over and pushed myself up onto my feet. It was dark, and I felt gritty as concrete dust stuck to my bloody wounds. Outside I could hear a firefight-shredders mixed with the sound of high-powered hunting rifles owned by rich boys. Rich boys who’d actually survived and gotten ruthless. And here I was inside their perimeter, about to shove these nanobots right up their collective asses.

There wasn’t time to look the place over, to recollect floor plans and memorize exits. I saw stairs in the gloom and I ran for them, every breath painful, like razors inside my lungs. Moving as quietly as I could, I took the steps two at a time, the old wood groaning under my weight. At the top I didn’t even have time to ponder the soft-looking wooden door before it was torn open and I brought up my gun in an automatic response. A fat, puffing bald man appeared in the door frame, dressed in some ridiculous outfit that approximated combat armor: a dark, heavy vest; tough, thick pants tucked into heavy-duty boots; an ammo belt slung jauntily across his shoulders. He stared at me in red-faced shock for a second, his rifle-a nice, expensive item, but semiauto and too slow on the refire for practical use in my world-pointed lazily at his feet.

I gave him a second to make a choice. It had been a long time since I’d been a free agent, and to celebrate not having any dead friends to Push me or angry cops to compel me, I waited until his hand twitched the gun up at me. Then I squeezed the trigger and shot him in the face, knocking him backward into the opposite wall.

I ducked my head into the hall for a quick look, but there was no one else. Stepping over his legs, I moved quickly, gun held low and away from me. It was a long hall, stretching from the back to the front of the building. A frozen escalator led upward to my left as I coasted forward in the gloom-all the windows had been diligently boarded up-the dust drifting around me making everything hazy and making my chest heave with the urge to tear itself up again. I sorted my dim memories of the place and knew I needed back access, second or third floor, although I had to assume all windows had been blocked.

I heard feet on the upper floors, pounding down toward me. Amateurs, I thought as I glided around to the base of the escalator, crouching and peering upward. I didn’t take any joy in it. Killing assholes who thought picking up a gun made them tough guys was an occupational hazard and always had been, and besides, I was killing them just by being there, and in my opinion a bullet to the head was a lot more humane.

Waiting patiently, gun poised but held down a little to make me take a second before unloading, I contemplated the dusty gloom above and wondered what their plan had been. Just survive for as long as possible, see if their luck changed? Maybe the plague would burn itself out, maybe the government would find a cure, come flying in on rainbow-colored hovers, calling its children home. Rich folks usually thought the System would take care of them, but a funny thing happened when all that yen became worth approximately zero: you became dead weight.

Dust undisturbed since the start of time crowded the air around me, giving it texture and choking me. Two men, beefy and sweating in their cobbled-up combat uniforms, swung obliviously around the handrail onto the dead escalator. I shot the first in the chest, taking my time, and as he tumbled down toward me I sighted on the second guy, who’d stopped cold on the fourth step, looking almost comically shocked. He moved to turn back as I squeezed the trigger again, and my shot must have split some hairs on his neck as it missed, forcing me to come halfway out of my crouch and squint up at him, nailing him in the back as he reached the top of the escalator just as his buddy crashed into me, knocking me back, stumbling to keep my balance.

The second man thumped down the steps and onto his buddy with a soft moan. I put another shell into the top of his head, ending it. I thought about adding him to my list and then wondered how I’d account for the people who’d died from this so far. Did it matter anymore? I’d killed the world. Individuals didn’t make any difference.

Chest burning, sweat dripping down my back, I crouched between the bodies and peered up again, listening. I could hear a lot of noise above, but it was muffled by flooring and drywall. Trying to control my breathing, I took the escalator steps two at a time. Outside, the firefight was still going on, but in bursts as the Stormers patiently waited for the snipers to reveal their positions.

At the top of the escalator, I ducked down behind the low railing and chanced a quick look around. No one was on the other side, and I heard nothing on the next flight of steps. I allowed myself one mighty cough, a powerful spasm that brought another glob of rusty-tasting snot up through my throat with a searing jolt of pain, like I was dragging chunks of my lungs up into my mouth. I looked toward the back of the building, where two widely spaced windows had been boarded over pretty solidly, no light creeping in through gaps or cracks, the wood in pretty good condition. Three doors faced the escalator on the opposite wall, none particularly forbidding, all tightly shut.

I crept around the low divider and backed slowly down the hall until I had a good view of the next escalator, which had a rise about twice that of the first and disappeared into a worrying gloom. While I stood there contemplating my situation, the middle door to my left groaned open, comically loud, and I brought my piece to bear on it just as a short, bearded man poked his head out, looking away from me with such exaggerated care that some leftover sense of honor prevented me from nailing him in the back of his head. Seconds ticked by, the distant gunfire a comforting background noise while I stared at his bald spot, a wide circle of pale flesh in the midst of his thick black hair. I just wanted him to look at me. Shooting an idiot in the back when he didn’t even know you were there wasn’t right, even if you knew he’d happily kill you if given the chance.

The other two doors opened almost simultaneously. I blinked and made myself wait an extra two ragged heartbeats for both doors to be mostly open, and then I put a bullet into that bald spot, thinking I’d done what I could to satisfy useless honor. I spun into the nearest door and put another shell into some old man’s neck, forty if he was a day, who stumbled backward into shadows clutching at his bloodied throat, rifle clattering to the floor. I leaped across the hallway into the room behind him, following him as he spluttered backward, stumbling over his own feet and dropping to the floor.