1 Prologue
Lupe called John out for a lunch one day. That was odd, they hadn't met in person for months.
John pulled himself out of the pod, an upgrade introduced in the ninth year, for the first time in days. Equipped with nutrient solutions, the pods were rated for 36 hours, but John never took it seriously. Thin and unhealthily pale, his health had undoubtedly deteriorated.
Lupe had chosen one of the more expensive restaurants in town, close to the apartment. It was bright outside, almost even painful to John's sheltered eyes. He walked in a little late, asking for the reservation under Lupe's name.
He was brought to a small booth in the back. Lupe hadn't shown up yet. John browsed the menu lightly and checked his phone. He wasn't hungry. The waitress soon brought water which he didn't drink.
"There you are," John said when he finally saw that familiar pale face.
Lupe didn't say anything. His jaw was locked tight, teeth grit. Words wouldn't mean anything at this point. He simply produced a short stubby pistol from his jacket. The squat opening pointing directly into John's face was unreal. Matte black and cold, it was held by a thin wrist that looked like it would snap after a single shot.
John immediately dashed from his seat. Lupe mustn't have expected it because the bullet discharged a split second too late, slamming into John's right hand and disfiguring a couple of fingers. Shrieks could be heard throughout the restaurant as nearby servers showered the floor with broken ceramics.
The sudden shot must have hurt Lupe too, as no further lead dug itself into John back.
He quickly turned a corner, clasping his crippled hand. He forced his way through the aisles and into the blinding sun.
The street was deserted, oddly so. He weak heart pounded; his lungs wheezed uncontrollably. 'This was insane!' Few would be as bold as to attempt murder in broad daylight.
Behind him, the front door burst open as Lupe appeared on the sidewalk.
At that moment, John never felt more exposed. It was like being naked in public, except with the heinous stare of the barrel which never really cared about clothing.
And so, John ran, not fast, but as fast a sickly could. Desperation powered those sluggish limbs even as futility and despair assaulted the mind.
His pursuer was also slow, nervously fumbling the gun before shooting. Lupe seemed inexperienced with a firearm from both his handling and aim.
The first shot narrowly missed John's head, colliding with a lamppost and showering him in sparks.
The second, just moments later, nicked the side of the abdomen, drawing a straight red line.
The third lodged itself in his right elbow, shattering a bone or two.
The fourth chipped the sidewalk with a small puff of dust.
The fifth buried itself in the left shoulder, interrupting John's sprint.
The sixth fired half a second later and entered just above the knee, almost severing the leg.
John forcibly came to a halt, flipping uncontrollably, and slammed face first into the concrete. He was bleeding from the nose now, and half blinded by the dust and cruel sun. But when he couldn't run he crawled.
The seventh got lost in the pavement.
The eighth found its mark in the one good leg, near the waist.
The ninth went home in the heel, maiming the foot.
John collapsed with an animal-like groan. His limbs were on fire and his core was in tatters. But when he couldn't crawl, he dragged himself forward.
The tenth through thirteenth were barely audible as Lupe realized his magazine was empty. He was breathing heavily now, as he inserted another magazine with jittery fingers and walked over.
Fourteen to eighteen came like lightning, direct hits to the upper back in rapid succession.
In a violent cough, John came to a halt and spun over, facing the relentless August sun.
Nineteen and whatever numbers afterward came methodically, almost in slow-motion. John had lost count halfway through.
All he saw was a face drowned off by the overbearing sunlight. He thought he heard the rapid discharge of the weapon, followed a furious clicking. Maybe twenty-three to thirty some? Then there was the distorted sound of the clash of metal on asphalt as Lupe threw the useless weapon away.
John coughed once, twitched a bit, and finally relaxed. The sunlight seemed to grow brighter and desaturated, finally ending as an unnatural white.
He let the warmth embrace him until he thought it was quite familiar.
