Sample 887-9021: The names given to every pig fetus dissected at 
High School between 1977 and 2014, in chronological order. 


The Director didn't take the bait. "They must've forced the Transall to 
land in lvato and trailed it back here. I'd hoped your HALO jump 
would've fooled them longer than this." 


"You're retreating,” Nathan said. It was the only reasonable 
conclusion, as hard as it was to believe. 


"Yes," admitted the Director. "They're coming for her — want their 
precious brain back, and they won't stop until they have it. I've been 
withdrawing as they seize my properties, one after the other. First 
the Yukon, then Crater Lake. The Amazon and Yalong Bay. All 
gone. And now Madagascar. They've breached the bunker and are 
making their way to the elevator shaft." 


"How many are there?" 

There was a discouraging pause. "It looks like an entire MTF." 
"Say again." 

"It's the whole task force." 

"What do you mean ‘whole task force'?" 


"Eta-8. Call sign 'Man-Eaters'. 


"Uh-huh. And how large a unit are they?" The name didn't ring a 
bell, but Nathan made a point of avoiding the Foundation whenever 
possible. The last time he'd engaged them there'd been nine agents 
and he'd barely limped away with his life. 


"Forty-five." 
And with that, the Director vanished. 


Kids with Guns Part Two 


Kids with Guns Part Two 


Part Two 


The explosion reduced the house to kindling and flipped Nathan 
over before slamming him to the ground. His combat suit protected 
him from the heat and debris, but the concussive shockwave of 
compressed air turned his insides to jelly. When he tried to move it 
felt like he was going to break apart into a million pieces; the only 
thing preventing him from doing so was the suit, holding him 
together like a sausage casing. 


Burning roof tiles, pulling tails of smoke and embers, sizzled and 
rained down all around him. It looked like the Pleiades meteor 
shower. Shards of porcelain scudded past his head. Pretzeled rebar 
clanged as it hit the ground and went careering off into the 
surrounding woods. A bed frame landed in the boughs of a white 
pine, setting the needles on fire. 


The rapid change in pressure, from high to low, caused the wind to 
howl and whip around Nathan as it rushed back in to fill the sudden 
vacuum. 


Administered hormonal agents, otic compound and coagulants, the 
Director said inside his head. He was speaking at his normal 
volume, but to Nathan it sounded amplified, booming and echoing 
through his skull. He winced and — not for the first time — wished 
for the serenity of a mute button. 


SOME PAINKILLERS WOULD BE NICE, he texted back. 


Later. There're more Foundation troops en route, both air and 
ground. Now get up. 


Nathan attempted to lever himself onto his knees and elbows. His 
sight dimmed from the exertion, black particles swimming and 
expanding across his vision, and he tasted the signature copper 


notes of blood on his pallet. His strength ebbed and he foundered, 
sprawled out on his stomach. He may have passed out for a second 
or two. It was hard to tell. 


He tried to pick himself up again, grinding his teeth and choking 
back a moan that demanded to be released. A vein throbbed in his 
forehead. Nathan imagined his insides as a frayed sweater, the 
entire garment unraveling under the governance of a single 
unspooled thread. He coughed, and the taste of blood grew 
stronger. 


Get up, ordered the Director. You have internal bleeding in your 
lungs and bowels. One of your lungs has also collapsed. It's been 
closed off and the other, remaining lung adjusted for compensation. 
You've got several herniated discs, your right eardrum is ruptured 
and you have a hairline fracture in your clavicle and another in your 
ulna. You're dying but the nanodocs have you stabilized. It will take 
hours for you to expire in your current condition. But if you don't 
hurry you're going to jump to the head of the line. Now. Get. Up. 


Nathan relied on his arm strength, pushing off from the ground and 
curling his knees into his chest, swinging his feet into position under 
him. He straightened his legs, and when his sight finally returned he 
found himself standing, albeit weaving drunkenly. 


You should feel the adrenaline and the otic stabilizer kicking in. 


Nathan didn't feel shit; or if he did it was too subtle to notice. He had 
pharmaceutical caches inside his body that could be administered 
automatically based on vitals or remotely through the phone in his 
head. The hormonal stimulant should've boosted his energy while 
the otic compound restored balance, but at that particular moment 
there was nothing more he'd rather do than lie down and close his 
eyes, make the world stop spinning and hibernate for the next four 
months. 


The missile had transformed the house into a pocked lunar 
landscape. In the unsteady light of the burning trees he glimpsed the 
female agent, supine and half-buried in sheetrock. Her helmet was 
dented, the bangs pasted to her forehead by a bright red freshet. A 
curtain rod had skewered her below the left breast, pinning her to 


the ground like a butterfly specimen pinned to a piece of corkboard. 


WHAT'S GOING ON WITH THAT DRONE? he asked, glancing 
away from the body. Her eyes were open. For some reason that he 
didn't care to explore that was the worst part of it. The eyes were 
open. They lent the corpse a vampiric quality and seemed to follow 
him as he roved the debris field. 


It's inspecting a vehicle approaching on George Street. Not one of 
ours, and obviously not Foundation. Seems to be civilian. Once they 
figure that out it will return, so we only have a small window of 
opportunity. 


DOES IT HAVE ANYMORE MISSILES? 
Yes. | think they're using the AGM-114-V variant of the Hellfire. 
WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT? 


It's what I'd use. If I'm right, then that drone’s model can carry a 
payload of four. So it either has three remaining or some other 
armament that's the equivalent. 


Great, Nathan thought as he stumbled through an asteroid belt of 
rubble formed by the explosion. A webwork of copper piping was 
being licked by green flames. The silhouette of a large chifforobe 
loomed through the smoke — it was missing the wardrobe door, 
drawers hanging out and clothes strewn across the yard. He 
stepped over a smoldering pile of tomes and grimoires. A Windsor 
chair split down its saddle-shaped seat. What looked to be a horned 
neopagan altar, the unwrought stone covered in a patina of soot and 
candlewax with runes crudely chiseled into the sides and surface of 
the Communion table. 


He paused, frowning at the spot where he'd last seen the McKeown 
boy, trying to free his mother from her bindings. It would take a 
sponge and squeegee to clean them up. They'd been closest to the 
point of impact, and all that remained now was a bloody skidmark 
and some viscera that might've belonged to one of them, both or 
neither. The wet cordage of an intestine stretched like a clothesline 
between a pile of drywall and a jumble of wooden beams. 


What about Herbert McKeown? said the Director. 


Nathan, assuming he meant the old man, picked his way through 
the wreckage. The old man had been partially shielded from the 
blast by the box truck and one of the SUVs, but still looked to be in 
poor shape. As Nathan recalled, even prior to the missile strike he 
hadn't exactly been a shining beacon of health. 


Nathan jabbed his hand under the outcrop of chin, rooting for a 
pulse. It was there, fluttering and off-tempo. Nathan wasn't sure if he 
was breathing or not. 


Rivulets of blood leaked from the old man's nose and ears. His skin 
was jaundiced, beard the indistinct gray of cobwebs, speckled with 
putrescent food and squirming with fleas and lice. The fingers were 
chapped and stained from nicotine and resin. He was naked except 
for threadbare cargo shorts, starched with dirt and dotted with 
cigarette burns. Up close the yellowed flesh was oddly translucent. 
Not only could Nathan see the vascular system, but also the faint 
outlines of the skeleton — the attenuated and pronounced rib-cage, 
the almost bird-like fragility of the arm and leg bones and the spur of 
his hip... 


Unless it was all some kind of elaborate subdermal tattoo. There 
were designs, a mandala and what appeared to be Buer or 
Baphomet — 


The drone has completed its scan of the car and is headed back 
your way. 


Nathan removed the catchpole noose from the old man's neck, 
pulled out the gag, and then picked him up, draping him over his 
shoulders in a fireman's carry. He was greasy but remarkably light, 
and the new burden seemed to make little difference to Nathan, 
except for an acute itch that flared in his collarbone. 


Maybe those hormones were finally kicking in after all. 


Even through the air filters of the suit he was assaulted by the stink 
of the old man. It socked him like sulfuric fumes, causing his eyes to 
water and the little hairs in his nose to curl. It reminded Nathan of a 


long night he'd once spent out in the Florida everglades, surrounded 
by an inhuman miasma of jungle rot and scales and steaming mud. 


He opened the driver's side door of the closest SUV, a Ford 
Explorer, and after verifying the keys were in the ignition he tossed 
the old man over the center console and into the passenger seat. 
The rear left tire was on its rim after catching a stray bullet, but he 
chose it because the other SUV had taken the brunt of the explosion 
and was worse for wear. He threw the transmission into reverse, 
looping backwards to align the front end so that it pointed down the 
driveway. 


Wait. Take her with you. 
WHAT? WHO? 


Don't be obtuse. The female Foundation agent. | want her. Bring her 
along. 


WHY? SHE'S DEAD. 


She's not dead, and stop arguing. We don't have time for this. | want 
her. 


Nathan put the Explorer into park and darted out. He didn't 
understand or agree with the request, it seemed to jeopardize their 
objective with additional — and unnecessary, if you asked him — 
risk, but the Director was right on one account: there was no time for 
arguing. He wrenched the curtain rod from the woman's abdomen. 
The yawning wound fountained blood like a geyser. 


He texted, as if the Director didn't already know: FOUNDATION 
AGENTS ALL HAVE TRACKING IMPLANTS. 


I've arranged an ambulance retrofitted for surgery to rendezvous 
with you in Ware. It's equipped with stealth technology, signal 
dampeners and multi-spectral camouflage. That should buy us 
enough time to extract the devices. 


AND WHAT ABOUT ME AND THE OLD MAN? WE DON'T 
WARRANT AN AMBULANCE? | DON'T THINK HE'S GOING TO 
LIVE MUCH LONGER WITHOUT IMMEDIATE MEDICAL 


ATTENTION. He hauled the woman up onto his shoulders, 
repeating the process of the fireman's carry. Her removal left an 
impression of her profile in the powdered sheetrock like a snow 
angel. She was much heavier than the old man, and the itch in 
Nathan's collarbone graduated into a molten burn. 


The separation of you from the agent is tantamount to your safety. 
The sooner the better. After you drop her off a private maglev train 
will be waiting for you and Mr. McKeown up in Fallon. It has a fully- 
staffed medical bay to see to both of your injuries, and is about 
twenty miles north of Ware. The distance is... regrettable. But it's 
the closest point in the railway line to your location. There isn't a 
station; the train will be making an unscheduled, unreported stop on 
the westbound line, which is where you'll board. Your vehicle will 
then be dumped into the nearby Pike's Pond. It's small but deep. 
Used to be a quarry. The Toyota will never be found. 


Nathan pawed open the rear door of the SUV and deposited the 
Foundation agent into the back. After a moment's hesitation he 
decided to remove one of the zip ties from her belt, rolled her 
prostrate, and cinched her wrists behind her back. He didn't think 
she posed any threat, not really. If she was alive she must've been 
knocking on the pearly gates, had an appointment with Saint Peter. 
But she'd already proven to be a dangerous adversary, and he didn't 
relish the thought of her waking up and finding herself strategically 
positioned behind him. 


The UAV is locking on to you. 


The drone couldn't actually see Nathan, but it sure as hell could see 
the Ford Explorer and his two passengers. He jumped into the 
driver's seat and floored the accelerator. The vehicle lurched 
forward with a jolt that pushed him back into the seat. They caught 
air cresting the top of the driveway, and he bit his tongue when the 
SUV's tires touched down. Sparks spat out from the rim. The old 
man jounced and slewed sideways, leaning against Nathan's 
shoulder. His slack mouth — the few remaining teeth rotten kernels 
of corn — was only inches away, and Nathan could feel his rank 
cesspool breath on his neck. 


At least he's breathing, he thought and shoved him off. The old man 


flopped and sank to the floor, wedged between the glove box and 
the bucket seat. 


He turned right at the bottom of the driveway, the rear of the vehicle 
fishtailing as he swung onto Hammond Hill. For one brief moment 
Nathan was sure that he was going to flip the damn thing before the 
Explorer responded and straightened out of the slide. 


There were headlights about a quarter mile up the road, three pairs, 
maybe more, approaching fast and occupying both lanes of traffic, 
blocking his escape. More headlights appeared in the rearview 
mirror. Too many to be a coincidence on this rural backstreet and at 
this hour of night, and they lacked the flashing red and blue lights of 
emergency response vehicles. 


HEY, I'VE GOT A PROBLEM HERE. 


He considered turning his own headlights off and vetoed the idea. A 
lot of good it would do him. He was dragging a rooster tail of sparks 
behind him like the fourth of July. 


| told you that Foundation troops were en route by both land and air. 


They were already between Nathan and the fire road where his 
Toyota Camry — and his weaponry stashed in the trunk — was 
parked. He checked the ammunition on his gun. The feed counter 
next to the slide read seven. He had a spare magazine containing 
another twenty flechettes. He was also wearing the explosive 
bandolier with an assortment of grenades — frags and incendiaries 
and flashbangs. And he had his knife. 


The shoulder of grass on either side of the road was only two feet 
wide. Too narrow for him to squeeze on and sneak past. Nathan, his 
foot a lead weight on the gas pedal, red-lined the tachometer, the 
RPM needle dancing as the Explorer roared forward. He couldn't 
sneak past them, but maybe he could barrel through if he gathered 
enough speed and momentum. Probably not; probably the collision 
would kill both the old man and the agent, and then the Foundation 
could finish Nathan off leisurely in a hail of gunfire. 


What | wouldn't give for a plough or cowcatcher right now, he said to 


himself as the speedometer crept to forty miles per hour. At this 
speed the SUV continuously wanted to pull to the left, cantering on 
that rim. Nathan fought the wheel for every inch he gained. 


He buckled his seatbelt. How did that old joke go? 
Question: Do you know what the letters in Ford stand for? 
Answer: Found on road dead. 


The headlights had grown much larger and brighter. Lensflares 
kaleidoscoped across the windshield. There was the squawk of a 
voice projected over a loudspeaker or megaphone. Nathan couldn't 
parse the words but knew the gist. Pull the vehicle over and exit with 
your hands up. Stop or we will shoot.