I had just gotten off an exhausting night at work. My body ached like I'd been put through a gauntlet, every muscle stiff from overuse. With a long, heavy sigh, I dropped onto the cold metal bench at the bus stop. The chill seeped through my jeans, biting into my skin, but I didn't care. Sitting felt like a victory after the shift I'd just survived.
Six days a week at the Bellagio buffet was already enough to break anyone's spirit, but tonight? Tonight wasn't even supposed to happen. I shifted my weight on the bench, the sharp edge digging into the back of my thighs. "No one else can cover," they'd said, voice dripping with that manipulative guilt-trip tone I'd heard a hundred times before. I should've said no. I knew I should've said no.
But that wasn't even the worst part.
I glanced at my wrist, a fresh bandage wrapped tight against raw, pink skin. The sting had faded to a dull throb until I moved it wrong, then it felt like hot iron pressed into flesh. "What's another scar," I muttered, flexing my fingers as if the ache might vanish. My thumb brushed along the edge of the bandage, the sticky adhesive tugging at my skin. I winced as a spike of pain shot up my arm. Stupid burner. Not even a check-in from the shift lead. Just a clipboard, a write-up, and a "be more careful next time."
Across the street, two drunk tourists staggered by, arms wrapped around each other like they were the only people in the world. The guy swung a bottle around like it was a trophy, laughing loud enough to echo. A pair of headlights swept past, their glow carving out fleeting shadows on the pavement before disappearing into the distance.
I yawned, rubbing my eyes, and pulled my phone from my bag. Might as well see what garbage Facebook had in store. The news feed scrolled by — baby pictures, engagement photos, and someone's "hustle harder" motivational post. Then a familiar profile picture. Jennifer.
Her purple-dyed hair made her stand out. This time she'd shared an article. "GENETX UNDER FIRE BY HUMAN RIGHTS LOBBYISTS," it read, bold and in all caps like it wanted to shout at me. I hesitated, lips tightening into a line. It was probably more anti-bioweapon rhetoric, but my thumb hovered over the link anyway. I tapped it, and the page loaded slow, that little spinning circle mocking me.
Finally, the article loaded.
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"GENETX UNDER FIRE BY HUMAN RIGHTS LOBBYISTS"
By Sarah Collins - April 27, 2021
It was five years ago today that the bio-company known as GENETX unveiled their first and only genetic bioweapon: the parasite 1-XB. Dubbed "The Holy Grail" of modern warfare, it was created by lead researcher Dr. Samantha Porter, a Harvard graduate at the age of 17. The 1-XB, a modified variant of the natural parasite Toxoplasma gondii, was designed to invade host bodies and excrete a mutagenic compound that accelerates evolution at unpredictable rates. The result? Violent, mindless organisms with hyper-aggressive behavior, capable of following simple commands...
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"Violent, mindless organisms." I clicked my tongue. Same story, different year. It was always like this — scary headlines, blurry photos, and conspiracy theories. I scrolled past it, but a single line caught my eye.
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"…17 marines were injured, and 3 confirmed dead during a routine mission in North Korea. DNA sequencing revealed exposure to the 1-XB strain."
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I sat up a little straighter. North Korea? Last week the government denied any use of bioweapons. "Nothing confirmed," they'd said. So what was this? I flicked my thumb, scrolling faster. Connection lost. The page froze.
"HHHEEEELLLLPPPP!!!"
My breath hitched. I jerked my head up so fast my neck cracked. The scream wasn't from my phone. It was real. Close.
Across the street, a girl stumbled into view. She looked young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, her black dress clinging to her like second skin. Her arms flailed like she was drowning, nails raking the air. Three men closed in on her. Three.
One grabbed her from behind, arms locking around her waist. She kicked and twisted, wild and frantic, but he lifted her like a ragdoll. Another man stepped forward, blocking her escape, his hoodie pulled low over his face. The third man staggered back, wheezing and clutching his chest where she'd kicked him square in the ribs.
I shot to my feet. My phone slipped from my hands, and I scrambled to grab it. Fingers stiff with panic, I punched in 9-1-1, my heart slamming in my chest. I pressed it to my ear, listening to the dial tone, my breath shallow and sharp.
Pick up. Please pick up.
My eyes flicked back to the street. The girl wasn't struggling anymore. Her limbs hung limp like all the fight had been sucked out of her. They tossed her into a van. No windows. No plates.
No. No no no.
"HEY!" My voice ripped out of me before I even realized I'd spoken. I bolted across the street, shoes slapping against the pavement. "HEY! I CALLED THE COPS!" My heart thundered in my chest, each beat heavier than the last. Do something. Move. Move. Move.
One of the men turned. His eyes caught the streetlight, dead and flat as marbles.
He moved fast. Too fast.
CRACK!
A white-hot bolt of pain shot through the back of my head. Bright. Sharp. Blinding. My skull exploded with pressure, like a balloon about to pop. My knees buckled, and the world tilted sideways. The pavement rushed up to meet me. My face hit first. I felt the skin of my cheek peel against the concrete. Everything spun. My eyes wouldn't focus.
Move. Get up. Move.
I clawed at the ground, nails scratching at rough stone. My arms felt numb. One of them wasn't working right. Blood leaked into my mouth, warm and metallic. I coughed and tried to push myself up. Move.
A shadow loomed above me. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. My heart thudded hard, but each beat was slower than the last. Time stretched out. His hoodie cast his face in shadow, but I saw his eyes. Blank. Empty.
He raised the gun.
The Glock 17 hovered inches from my face, barrel as wide as a tunnel. My breath hitched. My heart pounded in my ears, so loud I barely heard him cock it.
No. Not like this. Move. Move.
I pushed. I reached. I reached for him. Don't just sit there. Fight.
BAM!
The world went quiet.
It wasn't like the movies. No loud ringing. No cinematic fade-to-black. Just quiet.
I tasted blood.
My head hit the ground. It didn't hurt anymore. Everything just stopped.
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Vegas Police Report — April 28, 2021 — 3:42 a.m.
Deceased: Danelle Baker
Cause of Death: Gunshot wound to the head
Location: North sidewalk, near Caesar's Palace
Her body lay at an awkward angle, her arms bent in ways they shouldn't be. Her head was tilted just enough for her eyes to remain open, staring at something distant. Blood pooled beneath her, a wide circle seeping into the cracks of the sidewalk. It dripped slowly, winding its way toward the street like little red rivers.
Her eyes were still locked on the road where the van had driven away.
The neon glow of Caesar's Palace flickered.
The city didn't stop.
Neither did the night.