The Lincoln Memorial, Washington DC
2042 AD / 3 AR
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DEACON THOUGHT it was fitting that Washington's time travel machines were stationed under the thoughtful gaze of a vandalized Abraham Lincoln.
Situated across from the National Mall, the space underneath the teeming temple-like structure was filled with screaming people, pushing against the shock-shields the Reinforcers carried even as the barriers sparked with electricity.
Deacon had his own shield, and a gun, too—the last line of defense if the crowd (Mob, Deacon realized with a horrified twisting in his gut) surged past the shields to reach the TimePods. If anyone got past the first line, he had been instructed, he had to shoot.
It would be a federal offense not to, he'd been told, and he'd be jeopardizing the entire project if he failed.
The gun was cold in his hand. The .380 Auto Pistol was practically an antique, but its effectiveness could not be denied. Deacon's eyes scanned over the clamoring, terrified crush of humanity before him, his mouth dry as he searched for any signs of trouble.
Well. An excessive amount of it.
Nearby, further behind him at the columns of Abraham Lincoln's shrine, a buzzer sounded. A man and a woman sitting at the desk nearby the Hourglass picked up their Scanners, and the red lights immediately tracked over ten people from the crowd.
These people either wept with relief or anguish that their family had or had not been chosen in the randomized heat-tracking system for those who weren't wearing the cooling bands Deacon and the Reinforcers wore; that they would live instead.
Deacon's tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He sprung to action quickly, grabbing hold of the nearest selected person and pulling them through the barrier as the soldiers parted for a moment to let the ten pass—ten per hour.
It was genocide.
Exactly the reason Deacon himself would never, ever, time travel, even if it was to save himself. Everything he had was in 2052; his logic was, why give it all up?
"Go straight to the Hourglass," Deacon instructed them, his voice muffled through the mask he wore. "Get your papers in order." Don't get distracted on the job, Deke.
The woman who he had grabbed from the crowd's eyes were murky with tears. "Thank you," she said. Deacon smiled under his mask, his heart softening a little. At least there were some perks to his 'civic duty', as his boss had called it.
People were actually nice to him.
Then the woman opened the light green shawl that enshrouded her, revealing black around her torso, and blinking lights.
Deacon barely had time to scream "Bomb!" before the weapons within her vest detonated.
He felt shrapnel slug his gut, burrowing into his bulletproof vest as he was flung down the stairs of the monument. Metal and marble went ping, ping, ping on his mask, ricocheting into his cheeks. Everywhere was on fire as he landed on his arm, which crunched beneath him.
Deacon's ears rang, and his mouth was sharp with the tang of blood. More of it cascaded down his face, and he lifted his one hand to press it to his eye socket, which was a mess of gummy mush. Deacon rolled over, gritting his teeth with the pain as he reached for the gun with his good hand.
He was deaf, but he could see the peoples' gaping mouths as they screamed. The Reinforcers had been swallowed by the crowd, unable to control those who were desperate to live. They pounded up the stairs, right for him, and he knew they weren't going to stop.
I knew this was a bad idea, Deacon thought, as wryly as he could manage as his muscles screamed for him to move—to live—but his broken bones wouldn't allow it.
'Civic duty' my ass, was Deacon Jaspers' last frustrated thought, before he pressed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
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