Free Intended Extinction by Greg Hanks

o’ clock rolled around, my eyes burned from staring at a screen for so long. Kevin Bates had come to say hi, discussing the weird Collector voice. I had to admit, Kevin was growing on me. He was kind of jealous of the time I was spending with Tara, but he wasn’t about to make a scene.
    “Who do you think’ll show up?” Kevin asked. He sat with his arms over the backrest of the chair next to me.
    “No clue,” I said, looking over his shoulder.
    “Probably just some Volunteer,” said Tara.
    Our conversation continued for another hour, and it seemed like GenoTec was going to forget about us. As I was telling a story from my construction days, Tara stopped smiling and looked past us, toward the lobby.
    “Slate?!” she whispered.
    Kevin and I spun around. Sure enough, Archturus Slate and two GenoTec bodyguards were conversing with one of the Turnmont Volunteers. Then, the Volunteer pointed in our direction and Slate turned, sending a shock down my spine.
    “He’s really coming,” said Kevin, and the three of us got to our feet.
    Slate walked over to our small nook and stood at the threshold.
    “What is your name?” Slate asked Kevin.
    “K-Kevin Bates.”
    “Mr. Bates, will you give us a moment?” The metal reverb of his voice filled the room.
    Kevin turned to us and then was escorted away by one of the bodyguards.
    Slate took a few steps forward. Standing in front of me like a world champion wrestler, he inhaled. A few people in the lobby caught eye of the strange event and the Turnmont was buzzing in seconds.
    “What’s going on?” I asked, like a child being confronted by an ominous monster.
    “Mark and Tara?” he asked.
    Seeing Slate up close and personal was extremely intimidating. His fire hydrant neck, massive dome shoulders, and boulder arms had me wondering how the hell he could have maintained such a physique. He was wearing a similar outfit from Battery Park—combat boots, noir drab, and an overcoat. The strange device covering his mouth and nose looked tarnished. His black hole eyes searched me.
    I straightened and tried to act undeterred. “Yeah, that’s us.”
    Slate didn’t speak another word for at least ten seconds. His gaze stood still.
    What the hell was going on? Why wasn’t he saying anything?
    Tara shifted her weight and wore a confused face.
    Slate sighed heavily, with eyes that were far from entertained. His metallic voice cut the tension.
    “Good luck.”
    The entrance of the Turnmont exploded. Shards of glass, cement, tile, and metal rocketed in all directions. We tried running to the threshold of the computer room, but two more eruptions shook from behind. Riding a wave of black smoke, I flew a couple feet, sliding against the hard marble. I pawed at the ground, knocking away bits of debris, crying out for Tara. As I let words escape, smog entered my lungs and stripped them of oxygen. My eyes watered and stung as I retched, lying helpless on the floor.

11
    Everything was chaos and darkness. Fires crackled, people screamed, and sparks flew. The claustrophobic smoke surrounded me like a cage as I tried to get my bearings. My brain was scattered, much like the debris all over the floor.
    Deep, scrambled voices came from the entrance, shouting . . . tactical positions?
    Gunfire?
    No, it couldn’t have been.
    I snapped—everything focused and I crawled behind a table flipped on its side. I skated in something wet and collided with a mound of crushed concrete. The whole floor was covered in crimson.
    Someone shouted a few yards away. “Find them!”
    The smoke was unusually thick. Maybe the terrorists—or whoever they were—couldn’t see either. I didn’t want to put it past them, though.
    I had to take a chance. I didn’t have much time.
    I crept around the self-destructive lobby and tried to keep low. My eyes felt like they were being seared with the bottom of a scalding frying pan. I spotted a lifeless arm lying limp on the ground; the rest of the body concealed by a