While the refugees were baffled by the vanished weaponry, Thomas Smyth's clown mask peeked out from the generator room. He surveyed the bewildered group.
"Hey, buddy, whatcha lookin' for?"
The refugee, startled by Smyth's presence, latched onto him like a lifeline.
"We need ammo, man, but the armory's been cleaned out!" Realization dawned, and suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. Everyone's supposed to be defending the stairwell. What are you doing here?"
Smyth feigned impatience. "Don't even ask. Mad Dog made me hunt down this thermostat thingy. Said he needed it."
"What?"
"Yeah, don't believe me? Ask him yourself! I didn't want this job. I'd be anywhere else if it wasn't for him."
Smyth's aggressive tone left the refugee speechless. He muttered, "Damn, he gets a layman for this, not me? What's he thinking?" He pointed. "Move it. The thermostat's in the back. See? That thing connected to the water pipes."
Smyth followed his gaze. There it was, identical to the picture Dash Strong had sent.
"Oh, thanks, man!"
As the refugee stared, shocked, a silenced pistol materialized in Smyth's hand. Thump. Thump. Two crimson holes appeared on the refugee's forehead.
Looking down at the disbelieving corpse, Smyth shrugged, humming a cheerful tune. "Listen to me… thank you… because of you… you warmed my heart…" His gaze, however, was fixed on the thermostat, burning with avarice.
On the east stairwell, between the 17th and 18th floors, The Butcher's face was grim. This wasn't working. Ammo was down 30%. He had twice Mad Dog's numbers, but the narrow stairwell negated that advantage. Plus, Mad Dog's men had the high ground.
He contacted his western flank commander via radio. Stalemate there too. Something had to change. He couldn't afford this war of attrition.
He reached for his message transmitter to contact his inside man, but his radio crackled to life. "Boss, it's Ghostface! He's hitting us from the rear! Sniper fire! Mad Dog's pushing harder too! We can't hold much longer!"
"Damn it! Ghostface? Why? I thought he despised Mad Dog!" But there was no time for questions. "Hold your ground! I'll send reinforcements! If Mad Dog falters, push back!"
The Butcher knew this was it. Do or die.
Back with Smyth, he was figuring out how to detach the thermostat from the running generator when he felt a buzz in his pocket. He pulled out the message receiver. A simple message: Attack the east stairwell. Create an opening for us.
No doubt from The Butcher. "That sly old dog's getting desperate."
The virtual map confirmed it. The west stairwell was a bloodbath. The Butcher's forces were down to twenty men. They'd started with forty or fifty on each side, against Mad Dog's twenty-odd defenders. Now, Ghostface and two cultists were tearing through the western flank. Each attack meant another refugee down. Minutes, maybe, before they were overrun.
"He wants to clear the east stairwell, then pincer Mad Dog's men. Classic Butcher."
Smyth glanced at the generator. An idea sparked. He checked the time: 10:45 PM. Just enough time.
He wrapped the thermostat in a towel, then pulled a grenade, yanked the pin, and wedged it into the generator, away from the thermostat. He sprinted out and took cover.
BOOM!
The generator exploded, a fireball erupting. The 20th floor plunged into darkness.
In the now-darkened west stairwell, only the faint glow of chemlights illuminated the carnage. Mad Dog heard the explosion and saw the lights die. "Damn it! Everyone, push harder! Take them out! Two men, check the generator!"
The refugees surged forward, suppressing The Butcher's men. The east side defenders, lacking Mad Dog's leadership, panicked.
The Butcher, puzzled by the lack of attack on the east, heard the commotion upstairs. Opportunity knocked. "Everyone, fall back to the 17th floor! Assault team, flashbangs!"
His men, save for a few with tactical headsets, retreated, covering their ears. Seconds later, flashbangs arced upwards. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Screams echoed from above.
"Go! Go! Go!" The Butcher roared.
Smyth emerged from his hiding spot, surveying the wreckage of the generator. A shame, but time was short. He saw on the virtual map how his grenade had shifted the battle.
He dashed into the generator room, stepping over burning fuel. He snatched the towel-wrapped thermostat, checked it – intact. Into his inventory it went. A grin spread across his face. "Finally! That wasn't easy."
Thermostat secured, Smyth's virtual map showed The Butcher's men dying rapidly in the west stairwell, and two of Mad Dog's men heading his way. This place was getting hot. The east stairwell, however, told a different story. The Butcher's forces were mopping up, pushing into the 19th and 20th-floor defenses.
10:50 PM. Smyth thought fast. He donned the red armband he'd acquired in the first-floor lobby bathroom and sprinted towards the east stairwell.
The two refugees spotted him. "Who's there?!" They fired, but Smyth vanished around the corner.
"Go tell the boss! Someone's heading for the east stairwell!" a voice yelled.
Smyth pressed himself against the wall by the east stairwell fire door. He didn't go out. The Butcher's men, alerted by the gunfire, were on high alert.
Checking their positions on the virtual map, Smyth yelled, "Boss Butcher? Don't shoot! It's me! I'm here to help! Mad Dog's about to wipe out your men on the west side! They saw me blow the generator! We gotta move!"
The Butcher narrowed his eyes. "Enough! Come out!"
"Okay, Boss! Don't shoot!" Smyth raised his hands, angling his body to display the red armband.
As he emerged, seven or eight tactical flashlights blinded him. The Butcher saw the armband and nodded. He gestured, and his men surged past, taking up positions in the hallway. If Smyth was right, Mad Dog would be here soon.
The Butcher approached. "How did you neutralize those guys on the first floor?"
Still testing me, Smyth thought. He put on a sheepish grin. "Boss, I kept 'em drunk, slipped something in their food, gave 'em hallucinations, then lifted their weapons. Couldn't do anything about the upper guards, though. They wouldn't eat anything. Screwed up your plan, sorry."
His story matched the reports. The Butcher was convinced. Scorpion must be with Mad Dog, hence this kid blowing the generator and coming to meet him. He even found the clown mask endearing now. Not bad. Potential here.
"Stay close," he told Smyth, then moved forward.
Smyth watched him go, itching to put a bullet in the man's back. Not yet.
Mad Dog finished off his last opponent just as his men reported back. "Boss, we found the generator. Someone blew it. He ran towards the east stairwell."
Ghostface, his outlandish sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, approached with his remaining cultist. "See? Your men are riddled with traitors. Someone poisoned the first floor."
Mad Dog didn't react. He owed Ghostface. "The east side's probably gone. We're low on ammo. Priority: the armory."
They moved into the dimly lit 20th floor, the only light coming from the burning generator room and a nearby furnace. No one dared use their flashlights. They crept forward.
Ghostface signaled his cultist. They split up, seeking vantage points. Ghostface slipped on his night vision goggles. The world became clear. He moved to a good sniping position, raised his rifle. A laser sight, visible only through night vision, appeared. He was ready.
Mad Dog joined him. "I don't think this is Caban. He wouldn't have this many men after last night."
"You think…" Ghostface wasn't surprised. This many attackers pointed to someone else.
"If it's not Caban," Mad Dog growled, "it's The Butcher."
"Kid, you know why they call me The Butcher?" The Butcher asked Smyth, watching Mad Dog's men on his night vision display.
"Why, Boss?" Smyth played along.
The Butcher tapped a man on the shoulder. "Because when someone becomes my enemy," he said softly, "I leave no one alive."
Grenades flew, landing at the enemy's feet. Boom! Boom! Gunfire erupted. Both sides ducked behind cover.
Smyth, anticipating the grenades, had retreated to the fire door. While the battle raged, he slapped two remote-detonated plastic explosives onto the wall, activating the timers. He retreated into the stairwell, closed the fire door, and rigged it with two grenades, pins pulled, tied to the handle. A trick he'd learned from Ben Walker when asking about dealing with cultists.
Ready. He checked the virtual map one last time. He chuckled and ran up the stairs towards the roof.
"Enjoy the fireworks, Butcher."
He reached the roof. The metal door was unlocked. Cigarette butts littered the floor. Some boss must have used this as a smoking spot.
10:58 PM.
He ripped off the clown mask and refugee jacket, quickly changing into his own gear, the rabbit-brand greatcoat over it all. He downed a bowl of Nourishing Mutton Stew, refreshing his Invigorated buff.
11:00 PM.
Anticipation and excitement burned in his eyes. He pushed open the metal door that stood between him and… whatever lay beyond.