Free Machinations by Hayley Stone

nerves. Nothing. Still, I can make them work enough to pull the trigger. That’s what’s important. “Won’t take me without a fight,” I murmur through a half-paralyzed face.
    Whir-whir-whir.
    Crunch.
    Crunch.
    Crunch.
    Closer now. I almost laugh from the tension.
    I don’t even see it. The machine tosses the mummy bags aside like doll packaging and reaches in, yanks me out into the crisp sunlight. All the while, I’m firing like a madwoman. The machine releases me suddenly, and if I could run, if I could make my stupid legs work, I would.
    But I can’t.
    Instead, I stare, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, as light and shadow fall over the machine’s still, metal face. It’s even more disturbing up close for its carnivorous look. A cool, raptor glare, designed to inspire fear, with optics red as the eyes of a monster. They are frozen in their last adjustment, half-extended toward me like a camera’s zoom lens. Everything being recorded, analyzed, and sent back to the higher echelon—the intelligence that rules the machines.
    The optics click, and I feel the movement like a foot in the gut.
Back online.
    I fire again, and continue firing every time the thing reboots itself, praying the charge lasts. The cold has taken its toll on the weapon, however, so it seems unlikely I’ll be able to get more than ten bursts out of the thing. Ten times the ten seconds it takes for it to reboot means I have roughly a minute and forty seconds left to live.
    A minute and thirty-nine now.
    I try to get my limbs to work, but they just
won’t.
The best I can do is flail around in the snow, gaining an inch of distance away from the machine at a time. It’ll never be enough for an escape.
    A minute and ten seconds.
    Just as the machine starts back up, and I fire one of my last rounds, an axe slices through its middle, causing sparks to fly. The machine doubles over on itself, its core processor exposed from the attack. The axe comes down several more times to make sure the machine is rendered completely inoperable.
    The world sways as I struggle to stay up on my elbows, my vision becoming elastic as a fun-house mirror. I try to concentrate on the stranger clothed head-to-foot in extreme-weather apparel, face hidden behind a white balaclava.
    Samuel
? I think, but then I remember Samuel never wore a balaclava. Or carried an axe.
    Somewhere in the distance, I still hear the sputtering roar of machinery, only now I dimly recognize the sound as belonging to a snowmobile.
    What I don’t hear anymore is the whirring, and it’s such a relief the tension drains from my body. In the absence of adrenaline, I pass out.

Chapter 5
    By the time I wake, my surroundings have changed entirely, replaced by white floors and white walls.
    Again.
    At least I’m not naked this time.
Although I do notice I’m wearing a change of clothes. The outfit is comprised of a snug, rusted-orange blouse and tan khakis just loose enough to be comfortable. In fact, both the shirt and the pants fit entirely too well, as if tailor-made for me. I put the two together. This was part of my wardrobe, back at McKinley.
Is that where I am?
It seems too much to hope for.
    I waste no time getting up and investigating. The room I’m in looks more like a holding cell than a bedroom: small, with very little in the way of furniture or decoration. There’s only one door, no handle. Beside it, however, is what looks like some kind of intercom.
    I walk over and push the black button, speaking into it. “Hello? Is anyone listening? I’m awake now, just so you know…”
    No answer. Not even the faintest scratch of static. I’m not even sure it’s still functional. Not a good sign, but I push the intercom button several more times anyway, to be sure. Or else to annoy whoever’s ignoring me on the other end.
    Once I’ve worn out that diversion, I look around to see what I’ve been left with to entertain myself.
    Just as the answer seems like it will be big, fat diddly-squat, I