The elevator was out, jumping from the sixtieth floor was a bad idea, and the fire escape door wouldn't open. It just wouldn't budge, no matter how hard Freya yanked on the black handle. Useless. Freya lost her patience and kicked the door with her sneaker. A sharp pain shot up her leg.
Only then did Freya see the black box next to the door: the lock. She had to rummage through all her pockets, but it was the parking garage keycard that worked. Who wouldcould have thought.
The box beeped, and the fire door swung open on its own. Behind it was a sinister stairwell, bathed in the red glow of emergency lights. The wind howled, its muffled sound echoing off the walls. Behind Freya, a draft slammed the neighbor's door open, crashing it against the doorstop.
Freya swore viciously. Well, she'd already failed her first task—not to panic.
She took a cautious step back and peered into the doorway. Inside was a foyer with expensive tiles on the floor.
"Hey," Freya called out, "I'm your neighbor. You okay? Anyone there?"
Her voice echoed, but no one answered. Freya pulled out her phone, switched on the flashlight to get a better look inside, and listened. The apartment was empty; the doorways to the other rooms were just black voids. Her light caught a coat tossed onto an armchair.
But her imagination quickly filled in the rest. Scenes from horror movies sprang unbidden to mind, and Freya wasn't about to wait for a voice from the darkness. She slammed the door shut and bolted for the stairs.
Below her, sixty floors of luxury real estate stretched down, all washed in a dull red light. The stairs were white and clean, like bone, disappearing into impenetrable darkness just a couple of floors down, beyond the reach of the red diodes.
And between the flights of stairs, right down the middle, was a bottomless black shaft. Looking into it made her head spin. Freya tilted her gaze upward — but above was the same.
From below, a voice echoed up. Or maybe a scream, or the creak of a door; the shaft distorted and shattered words. A current of warm air rose from the same direction, stirring her hair as it ascended.
Freya started down the stairs.
The steps were uncomfortably steep, and her palms stuck to the metal handrails. Stairs like these were probably designed for firefighters, not for someone trying to descend with bags. There weren't even ramps for strollers, and Freya came up with a joke. Apparently, the building wasn't planning to burn or collapse until people learned to fly on their own.
All that was left was to figure out where everyone had gone. She didn't have to wait long for an answer.
Just as Freya passed the first three floors and reached the fifty-seventh, someone let out a raw, piercing shriek. Then swore. From the shaft below, a flashlight beam burst out. It grazed the railings, casting long shadows on the wall, and died.
And then Freya heard something climbing up from the darkness. It was moving in short, rapid leaps—and with every leap, something clicked sharply against the concrete. It had to be genetic memory or so, kicking in for Freya right then.
Clacking claws. Long and thick, deadly claws.
“I didn't bring a knife”, Freya thought. “What an idiot”.
“Stop!” she barked. “I have a knife!”
But the clawed leaps only grew more frantic. Freya heard heavy, wet breathing. And it was close now.
She let out a raw, ragged scream, the sound of a has-been rocker straining for a note, and held her bag out like a shield. She’d been skipping her pilates classes lately, but muscle memory didn't just disappear…
A dwarf shot out from around the corner, scrambling up on all fours. It had a pale, wrinkled body, a black, bloated face, and ears that flapped like rags. Its short legs propelled its formless ass up the steps, closer and closer to Freya. Its bottomless eyes glowed red, like the vacuum tubes in an old radio.
Freya braced herself, every muscle coiled, ready to fight for her life. And then she realized.
It was a pug.
A small, fat dog with its tongue lolling out. Its huge, stupid eyes reflected the red emergency light. And the clacking came from overgrown but far from deadly claws on its paws.
Freya burst into loud laughter, and the pug froze in terror. It backed up but didn't flee. Instead, the pug bulged his eyes even wider, gathered his folds like an accordion, and opened his mouth.
Then it shrieked in a high, piercing human voice.
“I’M DANGEROUS! DANGEROUS!” its screech echoed up and down the stairwell. “I’LL BITE YOU! BITE! SHREDDEVOUR!”
The pug’s nostrils flared, spraying a fine mist. But when a stunned Freya took a step forward, the dog's voice cracked.
The pug spun around on all fours, stumbled, and flopped onto a step. Just as quickly, he scrambled back the way he came, vanishing from sight. Its curses reached Freya from below.
From downstairs came more swearing. In a clear, female voice.
"Damn bitch!" The woman clicked a lighter to light up.
She was two flights down. Apparently, she’d been the first to encounter the talking pug. Freya had seen her flashlight beam and heard the swearing.
Freya raced down toward her. And heard a metallic click.
“Hey, you!" the woman called from below. "If you're another dog, monkey, or whatever demonic crap those damn millennials drag home, turn around and head back up! I've got a gun! A boomstick!”
“Christ, I’m human!” Freya yelled back. "Where'd you get a gun?!"
“A human, finally!” the voice said, suddenly cheerful. “Come on down, girl.”
Now the woman was moving toward Freya, and Freya finally got a look at her.
She was an older, wealthy lady who looked ready for anything. Her sinewy arms clutched a massive, gleaming handgun, and she wore a red sweatband in her hair, Rambo-style. The lady looked dangerous, even if under her hunting vest with ammo pouches she wore purple yoga leotard.
Freya had never seen her before. But in the luxury high-rises of downtown Manhattan, residents didn't exactly go to block parties and barbecues.
The lady waved the pistol at Freya.
"I saw a damn orangutan. With a knife and a credit card. Come here, dear."
Freya rounded the staircase railing and stepped down to her level.
“...A talking one?” she asked.
The lady snorted nervously with a cigarette clenched in her teeth.
“You bet he was. Threatened he’d gut me before I could even raise my piece.” She took a step closer to Freya. “Then he disappeared into a vent.”
Freya glanced at the ventilation, and the lady tucked the pistol into her cleavage before extending her hand for a shake. Freya felt the rough calluses on her fingers.
“Susan,” the lady said.
“Freya,” she replied. “Freya Axelsen.”
“Alright, Freya, time to haul ass,” Susan said, “before the Chinks come for us. They’ve got a thing for white women. Trust me, I know.”
"Chinese?" Freya asked. "Are there even people here?"
“Lucky you. Young, and you’ve already managed to dodge the corporate cage.”
“All the doors are open,” Freya explained.
Susan scoffed.
“That's because everyone watched too many bleeding-heart movies and installed smart locks. So in case of Armageddon, their precious pets wouldn't starve to death. They could get outside and... I don't know, nibble pinecones. So, the animals got out.” The lady smirked. “Either that, or they knew what was coming. Wars don't start with the snap of a finger.”
With that, Susan clicked off her flashlight, grabbed Freya’s hand, and pulled her down the stairs.
“Come on. It's a long way down. We'll be lucky to make it in an hour. And right now, a lot can go sideways in an hour.”
They started descending.
"Did you get the message?" Freya asked. "About the NON-nuclear strike?"
“Everyone got it. It’s the National Alert System.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Freya said. “If it’s not rockets, then what’s that pillar of light? And why the hell are the animals talking?”
“Easy, Freya. There’s not much we can do about it right now,” Susan told her. “That bit about the rockets? It's just boilerplate they have to send out, ever since those scandals with the orgies and murders. The actual strike, thank God, was something else. You saw it yourself—an orbital laser.”
“What’s that?”
“A beam that fries everything in its path. Including the power grid,” Susan started to explain. “The Chinks have been building it for three years under the cover of their space program, getting ready to deliver the final blow to the U.S. Can't you feel how hot it's getting?”
Susan fanned her shirt collar, wafting the scent of Chanel through the stairwell. Her firm chest was beaded with sweat.
“So that's where the Chinese came in”, Freya thought.
And it really was getting hotter as they descended with their bags. Freya regretted not changing out of her business suit. By the forty-seventh floor, they were both drenched in sweat.
“But that doesn't explain everything. The animals—”
The lady's manners were rough, despite the perfume. Susan cut Freya off, turning back to her with a wild look in her eyes.
“Psychotronic weapons. And no, I'm not crazy. Live as long as I have, build up some capital—you'll start digging into how the world really works..."
Susan seemed just getting started, but then a bright light flashed from below. The noise of human voices rose up. Susan let go of Freya's hand.
"Finally," she said, relieved. "Rescuers."
Susan stepped aside, gripped the railing without fear, leaned over it, and shouted at the top of her lungs.
“Hey, up here! Rescue team! Damsels in distress! On the forty-sixth!”
Her voice reverberated down the stairwell shaft.
And there were far more people than Susan had realized— the cry brought the entire stairwell to life. Doors were thrown open on the landings above and below. The magic word “rescuers” had broken their paralysis, and people who had been hiding in their apartments now emerged, their voices joining the chorus of calls for help.
“We’re here!” a man’s bass voice boomed from just below them. “Help us, I've got little kids!”
"Lord, we're here, here, on the twentieth!" a woman wailed. "Please!"
"HERE! I'M HERE! I'M DANGEROUS AND I'LL BITE!" the pug whined.
Bedlam erupted. Susan swore under her breath and started peering down for the rescuers, draping her belly over the railing. She barely managed to duck as a massive harpoon shot past her.
It whistled as it flew up from below and vanished into the darkness, followed by a metallic screech. A fine plaster dust rained down on their heads. Then, with a soft rustle, a long black rope, like a snake, slithered down in coils.
It snapped taut as an arrow right away. From below came a buzzing—exactly like a fishing reel—and it approached rapidly. Some kind of mechanism. It was interrupted now and then by thunderous shouts, so gut-wrenching that the echo made them impossible to make out. People grew even more agitated, and the shaft flooded with wild cacophony.
Freya and Susan saw a bright light surge up from below. They threw their hands over their eyes just in time to keep from being blinded.
A figure in full military gear was ascending toward them, clad in body armor and a gas mask with a panoramic faceplate. He was suspended from the rope by an intricate mechanism. A bullhorn was clipped to his belt, a high-intensity flashlight was mounted on his chest, and an automatic rifle was slung across his back.
The soldier gave Freya and Susan a blank look through the glass of his gas mask and barked into the bullhorn.
“CIVILIANS, PROCEED DOWNSTAIRS! AN EVACUATION IN PROGRESS! FOLLOW MILITARY ORDERS.”
He placed a hand on the controls at his belt, clearly intending to continue his ascent. Freya rushed to the railing.
“Wait!” she yelled. "Tell us EXACTLY what's happening!"
The soldier ignored her and started to move up again, but this time Susan lunged forward. Unlike Freya, she didn’t rely on her voice. Instead, Susan jumped and grabbed the soldier's boot with both hands, forcing him to halt his upward journey. The muscles in her yoga pants flexed as her own feet braced against the railing, which groaned under the strain.
And the soldier's little motor whined pathetically and stopped. The soldier kicked his leg, trying to break free from the iron grip.
“LET GO!” he shouted.
"I'll let you go, all right!" Susan snarled. “Now talk!”
The soldier grabbed the rope with both hands, taking his hand off the bullhorn controls. Now his own voice, young and terrified, was audible.
“I don't know anything! I'm just following orders!”
“Freya!” Susan yelled. “Get over here and help me drag him down!”
Freya snapped out of it, dropped her bag, and immediately seized the other boot.
The soldier tried to resist, but Susan knew exactly what to do here too. She drove her fist into his crotch with all her strength, and the soldier shuddered, losing any will for conscious resistance. Together, Freya and Susan hauled him over the railing onto the landing, pinning him roughly against the railing.
Susan immediately disarmed the soldier, slinging his rifle over her own back. For good measure, she pulled out her own pistol and jabbed it right into the gas mask's visor.
At that point, the soldier had no choice but to submit.
Since the man had stopped struggling, Susan left him to Freya and used her free hand to grab the flashlight from his belt, shining its beam onto the tinted faceplate. On the other side, they saw a pair of terrified blue eyes.
Freya seized the moment and spoke first.
“Is this a war? What’s going on?” she asked, adding for effect, “I’m a media personality, I have sixteen million followers!”
Somehow, Susan sensed the soldier was about to give the wrong answer and aimed the pistol at his crotch. He immediately shook his head.
“No, not a war!” he cried out. “A special military operation. Ma’am, please let me go, you’ll be court-martialed for this…!”
Susan didn't let him finish.
“"Who attacked? Russia? China? Fuck the riddles, kid—get to the point!” she snarled, looming over him. “She’s got sixteen million followers, so you’re the one who’s going to be on trial here!”
The move was too reckless, too insane, even for Freya. Adrenaline was pounding in her ears. Without Susan's sheer audacity, Freya would have already backed down. But Susan had a pistol jammed against the soldier's crotch, and she wasn't bluffing. Backing down now would be the stupidest possible move.
Freya lowered her voice, pressing him, too.
"What operation, goddamn it? Answer, or we won't be responsible for what happens!"
“I don’t know! I’m not supposed to know! I’m just following protocol!” Faced with the two furies before him, the soldier's voice became a desperate shriek. "Government, secret protocols—you get it?"
“Argh!” Susan swore. “Military bullshit. Guess we’ll have to torture him.”
“What protocols?” Freya pushed. “Show us the protocols!”
The soldier jerked his head toward Freya, clearly seeing her as the voice of reason. His eyes darted to his breast pocket.
"Command was ready for anything! As soon as the satellites vanished, Brooklyn..."
Susan read the signal instantly and reached for the pocket, shoving the flashlight into Freya's hands. She nearly tore the button off, pulling out a sheet of paper, perforated like an old receipt.
Susan held it in the beam of light and began to read aloud.
“Protocol ‘Deadfall,’ Class A. Evacuate Government personnel. Report anomalies in electronics, mechanics, thermodynamics, and time. Follow HQ directives. Open fire on any units violating Protocol…”
Freya could see the sheet clearly. She scanned past the instructions faster than Susan, but they didn't add up to anything coherent. After the section on anomalies came instructions for loss-of-gravity events, a guide to combatting time-displaced hostiles, and the protocol for contact with “xenobiota.” There was a section on providing medical aid for a psionic strike and navigating non-linear spaces.
All of it, just to get one Air Force general and his family out of their apartment and into a facility codenamed “Keep.”
And Freya clearly spotted the order to shoot to kill anyone who "may by action or inaction lead to a violation of the protocol." Period.
Susan scanned the words too, and her temper snapped. She jammed the pistol harder into the soldier's crotch.
“What the hell is this supposed to tell me, you son of a bitch?!”
"That we're in deep shit, Susan," Freya replied. "Let's go."
“Nowhere to go!” Susan turned back to the soldier. "Where's this fucking bunker they're hauling the brass to? Which one exactly?!”
But she got no answer.
Loud thuds echoed from below. Another harpoon shot past them, but this time it wasn’t alone—Freya counted four. Ropes snaked down from above.
Freya didn't bother trying to persuade Susan or say anything at all; she bolted, leaping four steps at a time. Like a teenager who'd rung the doorbell of a crazy old neighbor with a shotgun always hanging on his wall. Except there was nothing fun about it.
"Fuck, Freya!" Susan yelled. "Where the hell are you going?!"
Freya heard a sickening thud, followed by the rapid pounding of feet on the stairs. Susan had pistol-whipped the soldier and was coming after her.
The ropes in the shaft snapped taut. The screams of the crowd drowned out the sound of the soldiers' motors, but that didn't mean they weren't close. All Freya could hear was the pounding of Susan's feet on the stairs behind her.
On the forty-second floor, Freya saw an open fire door and sprinted for it. At that exact moment, three blurred figures shot past her on their lines. A voice thundered from a bullhorn.
“DO NOT MOVE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
Freya ignored the command and kept running. The soldiers zipped past her on their cables. Tear gas canisters hissed, and behind her, Susan let out a raw, soul-shattering scream.
Not waiting for her turn, Freya dove through the opened fire door. The corridor beyond was bathed in the same red emergency light, and she could hear the tramp of boots and see the beams of flashlights from further down. More soldiers. Freya grabbed the long pull-handle to slam it shut, but it wouldn't budge.
Suddenly, a gunshot cracked somewhere overhead. The sound ripped through the concrete shaft, making her ears ring. A surge of pure adrenaline hit her, and she yanked the handle with savage force. Something inside the mechanism snapped, and the heavy fire door slammed shut, throwing Freya backward into the corridor.
Freya landed on her butt on the expensive carpet, sprawling out, but immediately flipped onto all fours. She had to hide. She scrambled back up and ran, half-crouched, past the turn in the hall toward the elevators, pressing herself into a dark alcove. The red emergency light barely reached it. If they came after her, they might run right past.
Freya clutched her head, fighting back a groan. It was a stupid plan. The corridors in this building were short. The soldiers had tactical flashlights. Thanks to the gunshot, she couldn't even hear if they were coming for her; a ringing silence pressed in on her eardrums.
A terrible premonition seized her. Her chest tightened, and spots swam before her eyes. She pressed her back into the polished bronze of the elevator doors, praying they wouldn’t suddenly slide open onto the gaping abyss of the elevator shaft.
However, as the ringing in her ears faded, Freya realized: she hadn't gone deaf. It really was quiet. The clamor on the stairs had turned into a barely audible whisper behind the sealed door, and she could hear a fan whirring overhead.
No one was chasing her. The womanThe girl took a couple of steps away from the scary elevator door, then slumped against the wall with a sigh of relief.
And immediately chided herself: the one who relaxes before the finish line comes in last. Going back to the stairs was out. But the forty-second had just two massive apartments, and one might have its own private elevator—and with it, a fire escape.
If Susan was right, and the bleeding-heart millennials had installed automatic locks so their precious pets could take part in the apocalypse, Freya might be able to slip inside and bypass the soldiers, the gunfire, and the gas.
And even if the door was locked, Freya had a hairpin with her—and plenty of time to pick the lock. She was sure she could do it. She beamed at how resourceful she was, her body filling with familiar lightness and energy.
Freya peeked around the corner, then darted on tiptoe to the first door. Clear. She put her hand on the handle and froze, the urge to whisper a prayer rising in her throat…
Ah, to hell with superstition. Freya gripped the handle and pushed. The door swung open wide, washing her in a wave of fresh, warm air from inside the apartment.
A tall, armed figure in black loomed in the foyer, illuminated by a flashlight and standing right in front of her.
But before Freya could even scream, the figure collapsed to its knees, bowing its head before her.
“Welcome home, Pruner.”