The Cyclops Initiative by David Wellington Page A

weren’t focusing, but he seemed to be getting over the shock of the blast. He looked like he was shouting, but Chapel heard his voice as only a whisper. “Somebody,” he said. “Somebody arrest . . . get that . . .” It was like he only had a thin stock of words left to him and he was burning through them fast. “His fault,” he managed. “Somehow.” Then he waved one arm in Chapel’s direction.
    The cops who had recovered faster started to get up, started to reach for their weapons. Chapel got shakily to his feet. He felt like every bone in his body had been disconnected from all the others, like if he moved too fast he would just dissolve into a big pile of Jell-­O. Little spots kept dancing in front of his eyes.
    One of the cops managed to stagger toward him and shout something Chapel couldn’t really hear. His ears were still buzzing from the explosion.
    But then another of the cops looked up in the air and shouted “Shit!” and started dancing backward. The others looked up and followed suit.
    The pebbled glass door of the shower from the trailer—­still miraculously intact—­was spinning in the air above them like a thrown playing card. As soon as Chapel saw it, it was like the law of gravity had been momentarily suspended but now was going to be enforced with a vengeance. It came down hard on the gravel and shattered in a white cloud of glass fragments that shot out in every direction.
    Chapel knew a lucky break when he saw one. The cops were distracted. He dashed for the water tower. His living arm felt weak and near useless, but he’d learned to trust his artificial arm in situations like this. He jumped and hauled himself up onto the tower, then over the fence.
    All before the cops even thought to start shooting.
    QUEENS, NY: MARCH 21, 17:02
    On the streets of Queens nobody noticed one dazed-­looking man in a tattered army uniform. They were too busy watching the parade of fire trucks and ambulances and police cars that tore down every street, converging on the train yard. Chapel kept his head down and kept moving, knowing he had a little breathing room—­but not much—­before the local authorities started looking for him. The cops back at the trailer had gotten a good look at him and his description would go out to every unit in the borough before long. Without Wilkes to vouch for him, they would have no reason not to pick him up. And once they had him he would be stuck in jail for a while. Normally, Angel would have been able to spring him—­but right now she was switched off. He couldn’t rely on his government credentials, either, since he’d been officially relieved from duty.
    No, if he was caught now, he would be on his own. And the cops would have lots and lots of questions, questions he couldn’t answer.
    He needed to get as far away as he could, as fast as he could, but that presented a problem. He had no idea where exactly he was or how to get back to the subway station. Queens had a weird street grid with avenues, roads, streets, and places all identified by number, and the numbers tended to run into each other so you could easily find yourself on Thirtieth Place, which ran parallel to Thirtieth Street to where it met Thirtieth Avenue. Added to that, all the street addresses were given as a pair of numbers that roughly corresponded to the nearest Avenue (usually), so an address could be 30-29 Thirtieth Avenue on the corner of Thirtieth Street. Even Chapel’s smartphone was going to have trouble with that.
    First things first, though—­he needed to get cleaned up. Eventually someone was going to notice that he looked like he’d just survived a bomb blast, and they would call the cops just to be helpful. Chapel ducked into a coffee shop off one of the avenues, intending to buy a bottle of water so he could use the restroom. He didn’t need to bother. All the employees