attack.” Franks stood up and went to the doorway, listening carefully and picking apart the patterns. Handguns. Two shooters. Screaming. It sounded like standard MCB 10mm, and he’d been around a lot of those over the last decade, but what were his people shooting at? Had another monster got through? “Call it in.”
Strayhorn was also futilely reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there as he went to Franks’ desk. He grabbed the phone and dialed the MCB’s internal operator. “We’ve got shots fired on the ninth floor.”
Franks took a quick glance around the edge of the door. “Hmmm . . .” He did not surprise easily but then again, it isn’t often that you saw a mirror image of yourself executing the janitorial staff. The man who looked exactly like him spotted Franks and raised his pistol. Franks stepped back as the frosted glass shattered and a bullet zipped through his office to slam into a stack of binders. Franks scowled. Curious.
Holes appeared in the walls around them. Another bullet smashed the desk phone and Strayhorn took cover. The rookie struck him as relatively calm. “What do we do? We’ve all been disarmed.”
And that was totally unacceptable. Franks would not have lasted one century, let alone three, if he hadn’t been consistently prepared. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand down the Sheetrock, looking for the right spot. More bullets flew through the office. Their attacker was trying to pin them down, which meant someone else was probably maneuvering up on them. Strayhorn rolled behind the desk when the lamp on top of it shattered. The rookie was looking for something to use as a weapon when he saw Franks poking at the wall. “What’re you doing?”
They had remodeled this floor after the cinder beast had burned it. Franks had seen the construction as an opportunity . . . Stupid policies came and went as the MCB changed stupid managers, but paranoia was forever. There. He found the right spot and then slammed his hand through the Sheetrock.
Franks tugged the old Colt Commando out of the wall. It was covered in dust and spider webs, but he’d thoroughly oiled the weapon before stashing it. He pulled back the charging handle and it felt as slick as when he’d hidden it there years before during the building’s remodel. He let the bolt fly forward to chamber a round. There were at least two shooters. The sounds told him they were taking turns firing on his office while the other reloaded. A bullet punched through the wall and tore an inch of skin from his bicep. Franks frowned as his blood sluggishly rolled through the gash. This was his newest suit.
He turned back. The MCB night shift’s skeleton crew were either running or taking cover between the thin walls of the cubicles. Papers and debris were flying everywhere. The attackers were firing blind. Franks could do that too. He watched the bullet holes appear through the carpeted walls, calculated the angle, shouldered the Colt, flipped the selector to full and ripped a horizontal burst through the cubicles in response. The stubby barrel of the Colt was extremely loud in the enclosed space and the muzzle flash was enormous.
The shooting from that direction stopped.
“Stay down.” Franks went to the doorway, looking for the first shooter. The double had to be a doppelganger or something of that nature, but those things died easily enough when you started pumping them full of bullets. But there was no sign of his duplicate. There were bodies on the floor, some injured, some dead. There was too much movement. People were running for the stairs. The shooter had to be here some—
A shape crashed through the cubicles. A section of wall was being pushed directly toward him. Franks moved the muzzle of the Colt over and opened fire, but it was coming at him so fast he was only able to put half a dozen rounds through it before the wall hit him. He braced for impact.
Franks was not used to being bowled over.
The Colt went
Strayhorn was also futilely reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there as he went to Franks’ desk. He grabbed the phone and dialed the MCB’s internal operator. “We’ve got shots fired on the ninth floor.”
Franks took a quick glance around the edge of the door. “Hmmm . . .” He did not surprise easily but then again, it isn’t often that you saw a mirror image of yourself executing the janitorial staff. The man who looked exactly like him spotted Franks and raised his pistol. Franks stepped back as the frosted glass shattered and a bullet zipped through his office to slam into a stack of binders. Franks scowled. Curious.
Holes appeared in the walls around them. Another bullet smashed the desk phone and Strayhorn took cover. The rookie struck him as relatively calm. “What do we do? We’ve all been disarmed.”
And that was totally unacceptable. Franks would not have lasted one century, let alone three, if he hadn’t been consistently prepared. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand down the Sheetrock, looking for the right spot. More bullets flew through the office. Their attacker was trying to pin them down, which meant someone else was probably maneuvering up on them. Strayhorn rolled behind the desk when the lamp on top of it shattered. The rookie was looking for something to use as a weapon when he saw Franks poking at the wall. “What’re you doing?”
They had remodeled this floor after the cinder beast had burned it. Franks had seen the construction as an opportunity . . . Stupid policies came and went as the MCB changed stupid managers, but paranoia was forever. There. He found the right spot and then slammed his hand through the Sheetrock.
Franks tugged the old Colt Commando out of the wall. It was covered in dust and spider webs, but he’d thoroughly oiled the weapon before stashing it. He pulled back the charging handle and it felt as slick as when he’d hidden it there years before during the building’s remodel. He let the bolt fly forward to chamber a round. There were at least two shooters. The sounds told him they were taking turns firing on his office while the other reloaded. A bullet punched through the wall and tore an inch of skin from his bicep. Franks frowned as his blood sluggishly rolled through the gash. This was his newest suit.
He turned back. The MCB night shift’s skeleton crew were either running or taking cover between the thin walls of the cubicles. Papers and debris were flying everywhere. The attackers were firing blind. Franks could do that too. He watched the bullet holes appear through the carpeted walls, calculated the angle, shouldered the Colt, flipped the selector to full and ripped a horizontal burst through the cubicles in response. The stubby barrel of the Colt was extremely loud in the enclosed space and the muzzle flash was enormous.
The shooting from that direction stopped.
“Stay down.” Franks went to the doorway, looking for the first shooter. The double had to be a doppelganger or something of that nature, but those things died easily enough when you started pumping them full of bullets. But there was no sign of his duplicate. There were bodies on the floor, some injured, some dead. There was too much movement. People were running for the stairs. The shooter had to be here some—
A shape crashed through the cubicles. A section of wall was being pushed directly toward him. Franks moved the muzzle of the Colt over and opened fire, but it was coming at him so fast he was only able to put half a dozen rounds through it before the wall hit him. He braced for impact.
Franks was not used to being bowled over.
The Colt went
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