Gorge Switch

"He’s bypassing the automated speed check!" I shouted over the roar of the mountain wind. "Garrison, the car isn’t slowing down!"

"He’s running the batteries hot," Garrison said, standing straight on the shaking wooden cart. He leveled his sidearm at the express track junction twenty yards ahead where our bypass line merged with the main rail. "If he hits that merge point at full speed, he will crush this cart like a tin can."

"Then shoot the switch!" I screamed, grabbing the iron frame of the cart to keep from being thrown off into the abyss below. "The mechanical lock is on the left rail!"

Garrison didn’t fire at the switch. He kept his eyes locked on the front driver’s side tire assembly of the approaching automated car.

"The switch is too heavy for a standard round, Valerie. I need to take out the guidance sensor on his front carriage. If the computer thinks the track is broken, the automatic emergency seals will drop the magnetic anchors."

"And if it doesn’t?"

"Then we jump," he said.

The silver express car drew closer, its massive shadow looming over our small wooden platform. The sound of its electric motors was a high-pitched scream that drowned out the wind. Cynthia suddenly smashed her fist through the reinforced glass window of the car, her pale arm reaching out into the open air as she tried to grab the edge of our cart.

"Valerie!" she shrieked, her voice carrying over the gap. "You think you can run from me? I am going to paint this bridge with your blood!"

Garrison fired.

The small pistol cracked three times in rapid succession. The first two rounds struck the silver plating of the car’s front carriage, leaving small, useless silver pockmarks. But the third round struck the small, blue-lit optical guidance sensor mounted right above the track guide.

The blue light instantly turned to a flashing, angry violet.

Inside the cabin, Thorne let out a high-pitched scream as the car’s internal computer registered a catastrophic tracking failure. A massive, grinding screech tore through the metal structure as the magnetic emergency anchors dropped from the undercarriage, slamming directly into the iron ties of the bridge.

The silver car jerked violently, its rear wheels lifting two feet into the air as the momentum tried to flip the vehicle over the side of the gorge.

Our broken inspection cart slammed into the merge point a fraction of a second later. The impact tore the wooden frame of our vehicle to pieces, launching Garrison and me forward onto the metal walking path running along the center of the bridge.

I hit the cold iron mesh hard, rolling twice before my hands caught the safety rail on the edge of the canyon. Below me, the black void of the gorge stretched out into nothingness.

"Valerie! Grab my hand!" Garrison’s voice came from the left.

He had caught himself on a structural support beam, his legs dangling over the edge but his upper body securely anchored to the frame. He reached out with his left arm, his large, rough hand open toward me.

I scrambled forward on my knees, my fingers locking around his wrist. He pulled me up with a single, massive heave, slamming my back against the solid iron pillar of the bridge structure.

Across the tracks, the silver express car had come to a dead stop, its front carriage wedged tightly into the concrete barrier of the bridge exit. Smoke poured from the magnetic brakes, filling the mountain air with the scent of burnt rubber and scorched metal.

The side door of the car hissed open.

Dr. Thorne stumbled out onto the tracks, his silver briefcases gone, his face twisted in pure, desperate terror. He looked down the mountain path toward the northern capital, then looked back at Garrison.

"You ruined it!" Thorne screamed, his voice cracking as he pointed a trembling finger at us. "The data… the entire generation protocol was in those consoles! We can’t rewrite the sequence without the laboratory mainframes!"

"The laboratory is gone, Thorne," Garrison said, stepping onto the metal tracks, his knife back in his hand. His eyes were entirely devoid of life. "And so are you."

Before Garrison could take a step toward the doctor, a dark shadow erupted from the broken window of the express car.

Cynthia landed on the tracks between them, her dark jumpsuit completely shredded from the glass, her pale skin showing dozens of deep cuts that were already sealing with black fluid. She didn’t look at Thorne or Garrison.

She looked straight at the titanium containment tube she had strapped to her thigh—the one containing the primary blue stabilizer serum. The glass was cracked. The iridescent fluid was slowly leaking out, dripping through the metal mesh of the bridge into the gorge below.

"No," Cynthia whispered, her voice dropping into a flat, terrified hum. "No, no, no… Thorne, it’s leaking! The neural anchor is draining!"

"Then take it now, Cynthia!" Thorne shrieked, backing away toward the tunnel exit. "Inject the remaining core before the cognitive decay hits the prefrontal cortex! If you lose those sectors, you turn into a miner!"

Cynthia grabbed the tube, ripping the cracked glass from her thigh. She turned her eyes to me, a look of pure, primal horror crossing her face as the black veins on her neck began to twitch and expand toward her jaw.