The smoke sears the back of my throat, scratching my eyes. It gets thicker the higher I climb, and I have to pull the top of my shirt over my mouth and nose. It’s damp and sticky with sweat and dirt, but it’s better than nothing.
Most of the lights are dead. There’s an alarm blaring, and I can smell fire. A sprinkler springs to life above me, soaking me with a short spray of cold water before sputtering out.
As I get closer to the bridge, I see that part of the stairway has collapsed. There’s a gaping hole in the wall, the metal shredded and torn. The Phalanx gun’s barrage ripped the stairs away. I allow myself a small smile. Should have aimed a little more carefully.
I climb up, hauling myself onto the remaining steps. This time, getting up is harder, the muscles in my right side clenching in pain.
I’ve come up onto the bridge level in the same corridor that Ray and Iluk used to bring me in. The door to the bridge is firmly shut, although the wall to its right is pocked with bullet holes. I grip the valve lock hard, and wrench it down, pushing the door inwards.
I can barely see a thing. The smoke is a solid white wall, pushing me back. I hold my shirt fabric tight around my mouth, and step inside. The windows of the bridge have been blown away, and daylight is leaking in from the massive holes. Sparks from destroyed electronics shower the floor.
There are bodies everywhere.
They lie sprawled across the floor, collapsed across chairs. Some of them still have their rifles, their fingers locked around the triggers. The floor is a sticky mess of blood and bone fragments. Prophet is there, too. One of the bullets caught him in the shoulder, almost tearing his arm off.
All dead. Because of me.
I should feel something. Remorse, guilt, anything. But I’m done with that. I’ve felt all of those things before, and they didn’t help. They didn’t bring the dead back to life. All I’ve got is an emptiness, like I’ve given out all the emotion I have, and there’s nothing left inside. I just want to do what I came to do, and get out of here.
Movement. Behind me. Janice Okwembu. She has a metal pole, and before I can react, she smashes it into my side.