The lawmen are coming. I can hear the sounds of their crowd-dispersal horns as they make their way through the clusters of cripples and refugees, looking for me. They mean to kill me. I stole money and gave it to the poor, the hungry, the desperate. I helped people, when everyone else refused to help them. Sure, I killed people too, but I did what I had to do. And right now, I will do what I have to do. To survive. Failing that, to take some of these corrupt bastards with me.
I pop the trunk of my vehicle. Inside are three weapons, a large Shell-Thrower, a small Pocket Popper, and a sleek MagRifle. Loading the Shell-Thrower involves slotting the shells into five rotating chambers, but the Pocket Popper and MagRifle run on electricity. I have twenty-two shots in the Magrifle, five rounds for the Shell-Thrower and thirty-four shots in the Pocket Popper.
Slinging the weapons, I take up a defensive position behind my truck. The NanoMetal coating should take a good beating before it starts to swiss-cheese. From my crouched position behind the truck, I listen closely to the approaching lawmen. They shut off their horns, having passed through the refugee camp without incident. Shortly after I hear the sounds of boots on pavement, a Vocal Projection Unit pipes up.
"Citizen, you are under arrest for the theft of funds from twenty Currency Banks in the Protected Territories, the murder of thirty law enforcement officers, and twenty-thousand Currency Units worth of property damage. Submit peacefully, or we will be forced to use drastic measures."
The VPU shuts down and I spring from my hiding place, firing the MagRifle as I rise. Three lawmen, the ones operating the VPU, explode as the super-sonic projectiles impact their torsos. Some of my shots go wide, hitting the delicate circuits of the VPU, destroying the machine in a flash of blue-white sparks. I keep the MagRifle trigger depressed, hosing the lawmen in destructive projectiles. Body parts and blood coat the pavement and the remaining lawmen leap for cover. I throw down the depleted MagRifle and draw the Shell-Thrower.
While chambering the first round, I hear the sound of jet-engines. An Aerial Response Squad. Shit. I quickly dispatch the rest of the lawmen on the ground with the Shell-Thrower, their heads and limbs exploding into chunks from the scatter-shot projectiles. The ARS jet lands, disgorging its menacing cargo. Six men in armored suits come stomping down the ramp, aiming their MagRifles in my direction. I pull out the Pocket Popper as they open fire on my truck.
My truck pops and crackles with the impacts, sending out bits of metal and glass in all directions. I leap from the cover of the detonating vehicle, firing the Pocket Popper as I run. Two of the armored men, struck by blasts from the Pocket Popper, drop to the ground in electricity-induced convulsions. The other four continue firing. One of their MagRifle rounds slams into my foot. White-hot fire shoots up my leg in response to my foot disintegrating into a mass of wet bone. I fall to the ground.
As the darkness overtakes me, I see the face of a refugee who has been watching the whole scene. A young girl. She is smiling at me. It's a soft, compassionate smile that makes me feel at ease. I had helped these people. I smile back and close my eyes for the last time.
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