Agent (Book 1)

Chapter 26-Nolan

26

Nolan Hood

Agent: 21

Mission: Not Applicable

Location: Unknown

Date: September 4th, 2089

Time: 1105

My heart is racing.

Fifty-three is here! I think. For some reason, I don't know whether to feel relieved or angry at that.

My side is throbbing uncontrollably from where the man has shoved me, and I'm lying face down in the carpet, drooling into the floor. All the strength the tube medications had given me seems to fade in an instant. However, I do manage to raise my head.

It's better lit in here. Two fluorescent light bulbs shine from both sides of the room, casting a glow across the dark blue carpeting. The room in length can't be any bigger than the last one, but the dozens of cardboard boxes shrink the space. It's unused, filled with dust and anything but the collections of a mass-murder group.

Though my wound continues to scream in protest, I manage to swallow down most of the pain and flip myself over, onto my back. I raise my head.

Lucky enough for me, there is a window across the wood, a long one, stretching from over the handle to the top of the frame. It's dusty, as are most things, but there's enough visibility to see outside.

At first, all I catch is a flash of red. The man who pushed me removes something small from behind his back. It is silver, though I can't identify it at my angle. I manage to move a bit farther up the carpet and bend down to get a better look.

A gun. He's got a gun, pointed right in Fifty-three's (if that really was her) direction up the corridor. Was she armed when I saw her? I close my eyes a moment, picking out the details. She was dressed in something black, with her dark hair pulled back and a large object in her hands. I try to think about what she was pointing at—a blob of color that I hadn't quite seen correctly—but the harder I think about it, the fiercer my head pounds with the effort.

The one thing I do know, though, is that the moron who shoved me in here's got a pistol in the wrong direction. He's more than ready to fire it at my partner.

It may be a feeble attempt, but seeing as I'm sprawled on the floor, I do the only thing I can think of. I yell for her. "Fifty-three!" I call, baring my teeth as I sit up. "Fifty—"

My back is shoved to the floor as the wall bursts apart.

Relying solely on my training instincts to protect me, I cover my head with my hands and roll to one side, narrowly avoiding a collection of concrete. Powder and debris sting my eyes, but I keep rolling, screaming as my injured side makes contact with the floor.

Roll, I think, slowing as my body gives in to fatigue. That's the only thing I can think to do. The same word, over and over. Roll! Roll! Roll!

My ears must be bleeding. The sound of a cicada's chirp resonates back and forth between them. Something heavy rolls onto my ankle and I put two fingers to my temple, concentrating, feeling for pain. The only sensation I get is from the bullet wound, and the blood I'm sure is pumping out of my earlobes.

At one point, as the scattered sections of concrete go soaring over my head, I'm lying on my back. I can feel something in my chest. And whatever it is, I hope it means that death is approaching. Emotionless, empty death.

The plain concrete over me is no longer a ceiling at this moment. It is a wide open sky, filled with millions and millions of embers. My hand twiddles with something next to me. Grass. High, yellow grass that slides between my open fingers. A meadow. Death carries me to a meadow.