He gave her a tentative kick in the side.

  Sara didn’t move.

  She’s facedown. I need to see her face.

  But I’m afraid to check.

  If she’s awake, I swear I’ll freak out.

  Ever since he was little, Van hated jump scares. He knew it was at odds with his love of blood and rot and suffering. Watching someone get flayed on the dark web excited him. But horror movies freaked him out.

  Van traced it back to being a child, going to a carnival haunted house with Mother. He’d been confident entering the small building, knowing it was pretend, seeing people exit all happy and giggling. Inside, black rooms with purple lights that made his white gym shoes glow, which was fun. The rubber ghosts hanging from the ceiling were obviously fake.

  Then some guy in a rubber Frankenstein mask jumped out from around a corner and yelled, “Boo!” and seven-year-old Van screamed for ten minutes straight. Mother forcibly dragged him home, making him miss riding the Ferris wheel. He was hoarse for three days.

  So it was with trepid trepidation and fearful fear that Van slowly reached out a hand to Sara’s shoulder—

  OMG this is scary.

  —and tried to pull the woman onto her back.

  Much harder than expected. Sara was dead weight.

  Well, not actually dead weight. Not yet. But the human body was heavier than Van expected.

  Van used both hands, and tugged hard—

  —leaning back—

  —pulling and straining—

  —her shoulders beginning to turn—

  —and grunting with effort, Van finally managed to roll her over and saw—

  If her eyes are open, I swear I’ll freak out.

  —closed eyes.

  Whew. That was intense.

  I need an energy bar.

  Van dug a Chocolate Power Explosion Bar out of his pocket, the wrapper proclaiming in bold letters Now With 8% Less Animal Fat. He munched on it, enjoying the glucuronolactone, and pondered his next step.

  First thing I need to do is tape her mouth. I’m going to dub my music over her, but she might still say my name, and some lip reader could suss out who I am and then BAM! the FBI is at my door with a warrant and I’m in prison and I couldn’t handle prison because I’m a sensitive artist of diminutive stature and those men are all musclebound merciless animals who want to prey on the helpless.

  One of Van’s newer compositions was titled Cacophony Concerto: Stabbed and Raped in the Key of D, but he wasn’t looking to have those things happen to him.

  Good artists aren’t limited to their own experience. Good artists make shit up.

  Van ripped off five inches of duct tape, which made a shocking loud ripping sound.

  He froze.

  If she wakes up on me, I swear I’ll freak out.

  Sara didn’t appear to move.

  Van set down the roll—

  —reaching for her mouth with the piece of tape—

  —closer—

  —inches from her lips—

  Please don’t open your eyes.

  Please oh please oh please.

  —lightly stretching the tape out over her mouth then quickly pressing it down and checking her eyes.

  Still no movement from Sara.

  Van blew out a big breath, then swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Wrists next. Then ankles.

  If I don’t have a heart attack first.

  He pulled an eighteen inch strip of tape away from the roll—slowly this time so it didn’t sound like a monster roaring—and then reached for her hands—

  —touching the tape to one wrist—

  —checking her eyes—

  Closed.

  —wrapping it around—

  —checking her eyes—

  Closed.

  —slowly and carefully reaching for her other wrist—

  —checking her eyes—

  HOLY SHIT THEY’RE OPEN AND I SWEAR I’M FREAKING OUT!

  Van screamed, getting cut off when Sara smacked him upside his head and knocked poor Van onto his knees.

  The pain was painful, and pain hurts, and Van’s vision swarmed with bright, swirly motes, and for a moment he felt like he was back at that haunted house and he began to scream again, and then more pain, this time in his nose, knocking the scream out of him and he grabbed his face and checked his hands and saw… blood!

  My blood!

  It’s horrible when it’s my own blood!

  Why do these bad things always happen to me?

  Van didn’t have an autonomic nervous system fight-or-flight response. He was programmed solely for flight. So he heroically managed to get onto his feet and run away, first toward the desert, but it was getting dark and dark was scary because scary things could jump out at him so he turned around and remembered—a-ha!—that he’d buried the guns in the desert and shooting that nasty woman was the very least she deserved for hitting him, twice. So he headed for where he thought he put them but everything looked the same and he had no idea where they were so Van ducked to the ground and hid behind a bush.

  “Where are you, you little shit?”

  Sara had apparently taken the tape off her mouth.

  Also, why bring my height into this? That’s just mean.

  Van chose not to comment on her political incorrectness. Instead he chose to hide until the sun fully went down, then sneak to the SUV.

  New plan. Kill Sara fast, save one of the men to kill slow.

  I can wait. I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.

  “I’ve dealt with assholes a lot worse than you, Van. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  And you have no idea what I’m capable of, Sara.

  Just wait until the sun sets and I’ll show you.

  You were chosen as a back-up. You had a handgun, which I hid from you.

  I was chosen as a lookout. I didn’t get a nasty gun.

  I got these awesome night vision goggles, still in their case, hanging around my neck.

  I’m going to creep up right behind you and slit your throat.

  He decided to choose the curved blade.

  That should have better penetration.

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  Flooded with conflicting emotions from seeing Bert, Weejy pushed down her disparate feelings of hope and despair, love and anger, courage and fear, and spoke quickly, before Ziggy could return to the control room and watch what they were doing on his giant wall of monitors. She could only see the top of SoJo’s head, sitting next to the autopsy table, where her friend had been cuffed to the steel table leg with her hands behind her.

  “SoJo… I have handcuffs in my back pocket. From before.”

  SoJo snorted. “I’m already handcuffed. You want to cuff me again?”

  “I also have a key.”

  “That makes more sense. Throw it to me.”

  “I can’t get to it. My arms are strapped down.”

  “And my hands are cuffed. We supposed to use our telekinetic clone powers and float the keys to me?”

  “Maybe you can break your handcuffs with sarcasm.”

  “Sarcasm is one of my superpowers. I have many. Did I ever show you how I can spit up into the air and then catch it again in my mouth?”

  That gives me an idea. The superpower part, not the spitting part.

  “You told me you can squat 300 pounds.”

  “Yeah. So… you want me to squat the table? Huh. That’s a good call. Okay, lemme get on my feet.”

  Weejy watched SoJo’s head bob, her friend apparently positioning her shoulders under the edge of the table.

  “Feels heavy.”

  Probably because it is heavy. With me on it, certainly more than 300 pounds.

  SoJo grunted.

  The stainless steel raised up an inch or two, then crashed back to the floor.

  “Jesus!” SoJo blew out a breath. “That’s effing hard! How many slices of pizza did you eat?”

  “You can do it, SoJo. Keep trying.”

  “I’m dizzy.”

  “You got this.”

  SoJo again heaved. The table again moved, but not enough for SoJo to pull her hands out. It came down with an even bigger BANG!

  If someone is walking in the hall outside, they’ll hear that.

  And at any moment, Ziggy could see what we’re attempting.

  “I believe in you, SoJo.”

  “I can’t do it.” SoJo sounded shaken. “Feels like my small intestine is going to pop out of my side like a Slinky.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t. My nose just started bleeding. I gave it everything I had. I don’t have anything left, Weejy. I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry.”

  Weejy wanted to scream in frustration, but she set her jaw and stayed focused.

  I need to give her a pep talk.

  The most effective pep talk of all time.

  I need to remind this woman who she is.

  “Your donor was Sojourner Truth. She escaped from slavery.”

  “She walked away, Weejy. Slow and steady and dignified. That’s why they called it Sojourner’s Walk to Freedom. She didn’t have to lift up four hundred pounds. I’m telling you the truth. I just don’t have the strength.”

  “I’m talking about real strength, SoJo. Inner strength. Not just muscles. There’s a reason your donor is famous. There’s a reason they cloned her. Think about that. Out of everyone in history, they only cloned twenty people.”

  “Twenty-one if we count that hottie, Leo.”

  “My point is, those scientists—those white, male scientists—picked your donor as one of history’s best. Out of hundreds of years of human history, they chose a Black female former slave. You have it in you. You can do this.”

  “Weejy—”

  “Ain’t you a woman?”

  Weejy watched SoJo shake her head. “Please don’t go there.”

  “Say the speech.”

  “Weejy—”

  “Say the damn Ain’t I A Woman speech!”

  Sojourner Truth’s most famous words, first spoken in 1851 at the Women’s Rights Convention, because suffrage wasn’t just for white women. It was for all women.

  SoJo took a deep breath, and began to recite. “That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman?”

  SoJo had said it so many times that Weejy knew it by heart. “Keep going!”

  SoJo’s voice got stronger. “Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman?”

  Weejy got chills. “Preach!”

  “I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman?” SoJo began to shout. “I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?!”

  “Now lift that son of a bitch up!”

  SoJo yelled, an Olympic-style power-lifter yell, and then the table came up, higher than both other times—

  —and once again crashed to the floor.

  No!

  Weejy almost sobbed.

  We’re screwed.

  Not just us. The whole world. Bert is going to help build a doomsday device, just to save me. His love warms my heart, but because he loves me I’m going to be indirectly responsible for untold deaths. And there’s nothing that anybody can—

  “Hey, why you looking so sad?”

  SoJo stood next to the table, grinning.

  “You did it! SoJo, you did it!”

  SoJo winked. “Ain’t I a woman?”

  “My back pocket. Keys.”

  SoJo had to hop up on the table and wiggle her butt over to Weejy’s. She fished the keys out, then placed them in Weejy’s bound hand. After a few attempts, Weejy was able to get it into SoJo’s cuffs and free her. Half a minute later both women were on their feet, hugging despite the blood soaking both of them.

  “So you don’t think the speech was too much?” SoJo asked. “Too over-the-top?”

  “It blew me away. Never been so inspired by any speech.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Remember when you were joking about running for president? You should really think about getting into politics. You gave me chills. I swear.”

  “I’ll consider it. Where we headed?”

  “I think I know where the exit is. We get out, meet with the others.”

  “How about your boyfriend?”

  Bert? Is he really my boyfriend?

  We’d gone from fast-friends, to sort-of dating, to each professing our love.

  He has to my boyfriend.

  “I want to save Bert. More than anything. But we have to come back for him. Ziggy needs Bert for his death ray. He won’t kill him. But he could torture him. We need to bring back help. We need to bring all of his friends here.”

  “Was that pain rod thingy that bad? It didn’t look too scary.”

  “It was the worst thing ever.”

  “Maybe you and Bert are just babies.”

  “Hope you don’t ever have to find out for yourself.”

  They hurried to the steel door.

  Locked.

  Weejy refused to be stopped that easily. “On three, hit it with our shoulders, everything we got. One… two… three!”

  The women rushed the door and rammed it full-force.

  The door didn’t budge.

  SoJo winced, rubbing her arm. “What’s that made of? Concrete?”

  Weejy studied the door. It appeared strong enough to stop an explosion. Even the hinges were massive.

  She looked up, at the unlit bulb that held the security camera, fearing the guards had already been alerted.

  Next to the camera, a large air duct, spanning the length of the room, disappearing directly over the door.

  Those ducts run through the entire compound.

  Weejy pointed. “Think we can fit in that?”

  “Be tight with this Quad B.”

  “Quad B?”

  “Bootylicious Bubble-Butt Badonkadonk.”

  “I’m pretty sure you made up the term Quad B.”

  “I’m pretty sure my junk in the trunk will get stuct in the duct.”

  Weejy was also pretty sure stuct wasn’t a word, but she admired the rhyme. “Help me up. We gotta try.”

  They both stood on the metal table, and then Weejy climbed onto SoJo’s shoulders and tugged at the overhead vent. Dust plumed as she rattled it.

  SoJo coughed. “This is some serious Laverne & Shirley shit here.”

  A corner screw came out, allowing Weejy to get her fingers under the vent and pry it open. She stretched, sticking her head inside.

  Dark, but not pitch black; light came in through vent slits every few meters. The height and width seemed large enough to crawl into. She gave the underside a shake. Sturdy.

  “Boost me up.”

  SoJo laced her fingers together, wrapped them around Weejy’s foot, and after a few bounces and missteps Weejy stood on her friend’s shoulders, leaning her upper body into the vent. She fished out her cell and put on the flashlight.

  The duct extended over the locked door. Weejy also knew, by memory, that the ducts extended throughout the entire compound.

  And, likely, past the locked doors we couldn’t get through, to an exit.

  If we can get out, we can get to one of the teams camped nearby.

  “Climb up my leg.” Weejy dangled it through the vent hole, and then wedged her hands against the duct walls and took SoJo’s full weight. The ascension was awkward and painful, but SoJo managed to get a hand on Weejy’s ass, grabbing the rear waistband of her pants, and haul herself on top of her friend.

  “Now we’re into some serious Die Hard shit.”

  “I never saw Die Hard.”

  “Girl, you never saw Die Hard? Bruce Willis when he had hair? That dude who played Snape? It’s a classic. We need to have a movie night, watch the first three Die Hards. If drinks are involved, we can maybe do number four and five, but honestly, we could probably stop at three.”

  “Can you get off my back, SoJo?”

  “Fine. No Die Hard marathon. Be a bitch.”

  “I mean literally get off my back. I can’t crawl.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  SoJo pushed off of Weejy, who inched forward until she freed herself.

  “You really think you can find the exit?”

  “I think I can find the locked doors. We’ll be able to get over them now. One of them should be the exit.”

  “Then what are we waiting for, GF? Let’s G the F outta here.”

  BERT

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry. Ziggy made me invent the pain wand. He’s got leverage on me. And I know this sounds terrible, but it’s more, uh, humane, than other methods of interrogation he and Tork had been using. No scars. No disfigurement. No bleeding or burning. I tested it on myself. I know how much it hurts. But I really didn’t have a choice.”

  Bert didn’t blame Nick.

  Well, he actually did blame Nick. That pain had been unreal.

  But Bert understood that Nick was being coerced.

  Just like I am.

  And now Stosh is missing, Weejy is strapped to a torture table, and I have to help build an energy weapon of mass destruction.

  I’m not qualified for this. Einstein, the real Einstein, knew theoretical physics, not electrical engineering.

  My electrical skills are shit. I had to hire an electrician to swap out my fuse box.

  Standing in the lab, Bert continued to stare at Tesla’s notes. The original Tesla’s notes, believed lost to history. Tesla called his proposed death ray a teleforce; a charged particle-beam weapon, ionic focusing a concentrated non-dispersive energy through natural media.

  Sort of like being able to zap anyone, anywhere, with a supercharged bolt of lightning. Except it can theoretically shoot through an entire fleet of airplanes.

  But Tesla’s original equations, chicken-scratched over several pages, were practically indecipherable to Albert.

  This doesn’t look like math. It looks like an entirely new language that makes zero sense.