Chapter 9: Cleaning the House
Twenty fallen in the courtyard. Their bodies lie steaming in the falling snow, steam rising from warm blood. The alarm keeps howling, a useless siren screaming at no one. It's noisy. Inefficient. It will attract external forces. Unacceptable. I will not leave loose ends.
I turn and enter the main building again. The smell of blood and gunpowder follows me like a cloak. I ignore the corridors that lead to the children's bedrooms and dining rooms. That is not the objective. My goal is the nexus. The snake's brain. The Central Control Room.
Ring. My boots, stolen from a fallen guard, make no noise on the linoleum. The complex is a maze designed to confuse strangers, but for me, it's my home. I know every shortcut.
I arrive at the nexus security gate. It is made of reinforced steel with a small bulletproof glass window. Inside, I can see two operators. They're screaming into their microphones, their faces pale with panic.
I look at the door. My gut shows me the "seams." The lock is magnetic, military-grade. It is useless to try to force it. The crystal is weak on rubber stamps, but it would take a precious 1.5 seconds to get through.
I don't knock on the door.
I look at the cement wall by the door. Weaker. Faster.
I raise the rusty machete. My Touki flows towards the edge, making it vibrate with a low hum. Hit. Not with brute force, but with focused precision.
The cement explodes inwards. A second blow. A third. The hole is big enough.
I enter the control room through the cloud of cement dust. The two operators barely have time to turn in their chairs.
Efficient.
Their bodies fall before they can sound the silent alarm under the desk.
I sit at the main console. Blood drips from my machete onto the keyboard. The screen flashes with red warnings.
"I blocked the doors," he muttered. My fingers fly over the keyboard. Enabled Alpha Level Blocking Protocols. A deep, metallic groan echoes throughout the building as one-ton steel shutters seal every window and exit to the outside world.
I cut off all outgoing communications. The satellite connection. Land lines. All.
The howl of the outside alarm is abruptly cut off, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence.
No one enters. No one goes out. The cage is sealed.
I look at the monitors. I see red dots moving through the hallways: guards, caregivers, the other child soldiers, all trapped.
"Now," I say to the reflection of my face on the dark screen, "it's just us."
…..
The map of the complex is etched in my mind. The ultimate goal is the Director. His office is in the administrative wing, on the other side of the complex. The fastest way is through the B Wing, the training wing.
I move. The rusty machete feels balanced in my hand, the Touki humming silently on the metal, waiting. My Rebellion has a new set of rules. Simple. I don't hold back anymore. But I won't hunt. I only attack those who attack me. They are obstacles. They are his choice, not mine.
I turn the corner towards the main tatami.
They are there. A dozen of them. My "companions". Children from ten to sixteen years old, their knuckles white from the grip of their wooden canes and combat knives. They are the "obedient" ones. The "successes" of the Orphanage. Those who chose the cage.
They stand in front of me in a crescent formation, blocking the hallway. A trembling wall of fear and indoctrination.
"Subject Seven," shouts the largest, one I recognize as "Twenty-two." His voice breaks. "Give up! You have orders to surrender!"
He raised the machete, its tip dripping blood onto the clean tatami.
I take a step forward. "My path is survival. You are not my target. Move."
Five of them, the oldest, the most indoctrinated, shout and attack. Full of anger and fear.
Error.
My instinct takes over. The world is slowing down.
The first one strikes high, a downward slash with a stick. Inefficient. My machete slides up, cuts through the cane, and makes its way through his throat.
The second attacks low. Predictable. I break his knee with a side kick and cut his Achilles tendon as he falls.
The third and fourth attack together. Tactical error. Giro, using the former's body as a momentary shield. The machete is a blur. Court. Turn. Court. Your femoral arteries open.
The fifth stops, realizing his mistake. Try to run away. Too late. I throw the combat knife that I took from the second. It hits the base of the spine.
Falls. All in 2.5 seconds.
The other seven children freeze. Terror has broken his conditioning. They drop their weapons. The sound of canes hitting the tatami is loud in the silence. Two of them urinate on themselves. Another one vomits up.
I look at them. They are trembling. Their "seams" are wide open, but they are no longer threats. They are no longer obstacles.
I leave them.
I step over the bodies of the five who attacked and keep moving down the hallway.
The corridor that leads to the administrative offices. The smell of rancid sweat is strong. I smell it before I see it. Instructor Borokov (from Ch. 4).
Up.
I stop. My instinct screams. Borokov is hiding in a maintenance chute above me. Try to flank me from above. It's stupid. Its weight of 120 kilos makes the metal of the canal creak slightly under his feet.
Wrong, I think.
"His left ankle was weak from that old fracture," he murmured. I can hear the 20-gram imbalance in his step as he prepares to jump on me.
I wish. A heartbeat. Two.
The duct above me explodes downward. Borokov falls, screaming, with a shotgun in his hands.
It's too slow.
I don't jump back. I jump to him.
My machete, imbued with Touki, goes up. I don't aim at his head or chest. I aim for the "sewing" that I know so well.
The blade hits his left leg just above the ankle.
There is no resistance. The machete cuts through the bone, tendon, and muscle like water.
Borokov's cry is cut off in a wet moan. The shotgun fires harmlessly against the ceiling. He lands on the ground in a heap, his foot almost completely cut off.
He looks at me, his eyes filled with shock and terror.
"I cut there first," I tell him.
I don't stop. A second cut opens your femoral artery.
He is already dead. I continue walking towards the Director's office.
…..
I leave Borokov's bleeding body in the corridor of the B Wing and keep moving. The path must be clear. No loose ends. No pursuers.
I take the stairs, two by two. Elevators are death traps. My target is the top floor: the Director's office.
The complex is in chaos. The "obedient" ones I let live on the tatami have run, sowing panic. Not bad. Panic generates errors.
On the third floor, two guards see me on the landing. They raise their rifles. Error.
My machete, still buzzing with my Touki, moves first. Cut the barrel of the first rifle in half and continue the bow, opening the guard's throat in a single fluid motion. The second guard manages to shoot. I deflect bullets with the flat part of the blade, a trick I perfected out of boredom at the range. The sound of the metal hitting the metal is high-pitched. I close the distance before I can shoot again. It's fast. Clean.
I keep climbing. The smell of antiseptic mixes with that of fresh blood.
On the fourth floor, I pass through the medical wing. The door to the infirmary is open, banged in chaos. Inside, I see a movement. It is Dr. Lysenko (from Chapter 7), the one who smelled of fear and perfume. She's huddled under a steel desk, sobbing hysterically. Sewing: Hysteria. Hyperventilation. It is not a threat..
Our eyes meet. His face contorts in terror. He opens his mouth to scream.
She doesn't attack me.
I raise a bloody finger to my lips in a universal gesture of "silence." His eyes roll and he faints. Inefficient, but not an obstacle. I ignore it and move on.
I reach the last flight of stairs. The one that leads to the Director's suite.
And he's there. Waiting.
Instructor Volkov (from Ch. 3). He is standing on the landing, blocking the way. Not on a tatami, but on the cold cement. He is armed with two black-bladed combat knives in reverse grip.
It doesn't say anything. His eyes are dead, but his body is tense. He is an obstacle.
Attacks.
It's fast. Much faster than Borokov. Their knives are a blur, aiming at my ribs and throat simultaneously.
But my machete has more reach.
Clang.
He blocked his first cut. The impact of his knife against my Touki-imbued blade causes sparks to fly. He is strong, but all his strength is in the attack. Its weight is too far ahead.
He lunges again, aiming at my throat.
No blocking. I let my machete fall in a downward arc. He tries to retract his arms, but it's too late. My blade does not point to him; He points at his guns.
My machete hits his wrists. Sewing: Small bones. Easy to break.
The sound of knives hitting the ground is loud. Volkov looks at his ruined hands, his eyes finally showing surprise.
"You were slow with the flashlight," I tell him.
My machete goes up in a clean, upward motion. The fight lasted 1.2 seconds.
I look at Volkov's body. Fifty. Fifty-one, counting Borokov. "Fifty...". The air is thick.
I'm almost done. Only one remains.
…..
I reach the top floor. The hallway is carpeted, a pathetic attempt to simulate luxury. The door to the Director's office is at the end. It is made of thick oak wood, with a brass plate. Locked.
Useless.
I don't touch the lock. I take a step back. My gut sees the plaster wall next to the frame as the real weakness. I raise my Touki-soaked machete.
Hit.
The wall explodes inward in a cloud of dust and splinters. I enter through the smoking hole.
The Director is there, behind his huge mahogany desk. He is pale as a ghost, shaking so hard that the papers on his desk vibrate.
"Wait! Subject Seven! Jonathan!" He raises his hands, pleading. "Wait, please! We can make a deal! Money! Whatever you want! I will give you freedom!"
I look at him. My instinct, now a deafening roar in my mind, gives me one hundred and seventy-three ways to kill him. The fountain pen on your desk could pierce your eyeball. His silk tie could be used as a club. The fastest way: throw the machete. 0.4 seconds.
Part of me, the eight-year-old boy in the dining room, wants to let him live. To let it rot in failure.
But the fifteen-year-old self, the one who was drugged and put in a box to be sold, knows the truth.
There are no loose ends. There are no pursuers.
He raised the rusty machete, now covered in the blood of his staff.
He opens his mouth to scream.
Smile.
Under the machete.
The blade cuts horizontally, silencing his plea. There is no final dialogue. It's fast. Final.
I will not leave anything behind.
I'm going to the main armory. Now it's empty. I take four blocks of demolition C4 and remote detonators. Then, I go down to the basement. To the boiler room. The building runs on natural gas. Main seam. I open the main valves. The whistle is satisfying.
I place the loads on the structural support points. One in the boiler. One at the base of the confinement wing. Two in the command center.
I come out through a ventilation tunnel that I discovered when I was nine years old. The cold air of the Russian night hits my face, cleaning away the smell of blood. I don't look back. I walk into the woods, snow crunching under my stolen boots.
A kilometer away, I stop. I turn around. The Orphanage complex is a dark silhouette against the falling snow. I press the detonator.
A silent flower of orange light blooms in the darkness. A second later, the shockwave hits me, a warm wind that smells of gas and destruction. The installation explodes, a massive fireball that illuminates the night like a fake sun.
Fire consumes the building, the bodies and my past.
Jonathan is free.
I watch the fire burn for another minute. Then, I turn around and walk west. Next stop: America.
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