Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Forty-Seven

Thirty minutes later, someone propped open the room's large metal door, and a group of fit-looking men of various ages came in and began maneuvering Sam's cell toward the opening. The cage was tremendously heavy but apparently was on wheels. Within ten minutes, the men had loaded it onto the bed of a truck.

As the cage was maneuvered about, Sam could see bits and pieces of the facility. There were several cinderblock buildings, the largest of which seemed to be situated in the center of the compound. It was three stories high and had what looked like a military range tower on its peak, with high, broad windows that looked off into the distance. Behind these sat several men. Other men were moving about the windowed structure, giving occasional instructions through the loudspeaker system.

The rest of the facility consisted of shipping containers refurbished into various types of buildings. In an open area, near where the truck now sat, Sam could see what looked like large model planes. These were five to six feet in width and rested on some sort of inclined rail. The facility looked to be surrounded by a high HESCO wall. Forests and high mountains were visible in the distance.

The truck pulled forward a short way, and then it sat there. Several men were outside talking and giving orders. Mostly, they were technical and administrative conversations of which Sam could make nothing.

Even murder is bureaucratic these days, he mused.

It appeared, despite his puff and swagger, that Bennet was just another worker bee. Sam saw supervisors send him off on various errands. After about an hour had passed, Bennet and roughly 20 other men showed up in military combat gear. They were all heavily armed. Bennet carried a long and weighty sniper rifle that fired the .50 caliber round with which he'd earlier toyed. Several of his compatriots began hooting and hollering about Bennet's boast to make the day's kill.

Had the intent of the men not been so grisly, the day otherwise would have seemed convivial and light-hearted, given the mood and banter of those present. The contrast sunk into Sam, and he felt something deep and dark twist inside.

Looking out his small window, he could see several of the assembled men staring hard at his cage, but most had the decency to look away. Contractors, all. So far, Sam had caught a glimpse of only one other U.S. service member beside Kissinger, an army major whose nametag Sam couldn't see.

Abruptly, numerous vehicle engines roared to life, and the truck on which the cage was balanced pitched into motion. The vehicle bounced and lurched for about 10 minutes before coming to a stop far outside the compound. There was the sound of hydraulics, and the curved floor beneath Sam tilted. The cage slid and, with a jarring thud, dropped to the ground. Sam heard the truck retreat, and there was silence.

What was coming was obvious.

A normal person would have quavered in fear. The big Chicagoan was far past any petty anxiety that might have troubled his heart. Feelings flooded into him that he hadn't known since Viet Nam. Without preamble, the long blast of an air horn sounded in the distance, and the side of the cage with the window popped open.

Sam was out of the cage like a tiger.

Despite his age, he could still bolt with great speed, and his endurance was uncanny. The sound of engines revving to his left and right told him that the nearest vehicles were within 400 yards of him. He didn't know whether these vehicles were meant to hunt him or to herd him, but he assumed the worst, and looking ahead saw a thick copse of trees some 500 yards distant. He made for it at a sprint.

Small arms rounds began whizzing overhead like angry bees. The time between the passing of the rounds and the first cracks he heard of distant fire told him the marksmen were about a half mile away, well outside the competency of most shooters. He took no chances, though, and abruptly began ducking and weaving every dozen strides or so, to throw off the aim of his would-be executioners.

Pistol rounds barely tickled Sam. High velocity rifle rounds stung him, as a normal person might feel when being shot by a pellet gun. But heavy, armor-piercing rounds were another matter. Worse was the not knowing. Celia had revealed that this was a place where scientists studied how to kill men like him, and before his current predicament, Sam never would've imagined he could've been taken prisoner. He didn't know what else these criminals might have up their sleeves.

In the end, though, such minor imponderables didn't matter to a man so focused on survival and victory. Sam knew deep in his heart that letting him out of that cage was the worst mistake those men had ever made.

But the men hunting him didn't know that yet.

Just before Sam made a fourth change in direction, something heavy and hard struck his back beneath the left shoulder blade. It knocked the wind out of him, caused his vision to go white, and very nearly put him on the ground. He staggered, steadied himself, and somehow continued to run.

The copse of trees was only 200 yards off, and he managed several more sudden changes of direction as he ran. But the hard and heavy projectile—likely one of Bennet's rounds—had slowed him. The pain was tremendous, and his left arm no longer responded as it should. Yet he forced himself to move both arms as best as he could to maintain his balance and speed.

Nearly a thousand yards separated him from the shooters to his rear and the accuracy of most of the small arms rounds had fallen off. Most rounds sailed high overhead or hit the ground 10, 15, or even 20 yards to his left or right—though, as he observed that fact, he could just make out the eruption of whoops and howls from the distant shooters at their single successful shot.

By that time, the copse was just 100 yards away. Several more high-caliber rounds impacted the ground around him, tearing up huge tufts of soil and grass.

He heard the truck to his right turn toward him.

At that cue, Sam abandoned his ducking and dodging and drove headlong for the woods ahead. He might suffer another shot, but the woods were a place of safety and concealment, where he might begin planning his next move. He wouldn't be the prey for long.

Within seconds, he was at the woods, but as he burst through the first line of trees, he skittered to a sudden halt. Before him was a deep chasm that dropped off precipitously for about 100 feet before tapering off below.

Had he known the cliff was there, he could have made a measured leap. As it was, his unexpected stop had caused him to pivot and teeter on his left foot on the very edge of the precipice. He felt himself begin to tip slowly off the cliff, as his good arm and right leg pumped wildly to regain his balance.

In an instant, Sam's head exploded in white-hot agony, and he cascaded end over end off the cliff into the rocks below.