“Now.”
The second I say it, he drops flat and rolls. I fire.
One second later, a barrageof frozen hot dogs—accelerated by degreaser, vengeance, and spite—slams into the water tower.
The old metal groans and buckles.
Then erupts, the whole structure shattering in a rusted bloom.
I spot Tex diving off the opposite side, avoiding death by about half a heartbeat. I missed him, but the tower goes—and the water follows.
“Let’s go!” Alejandro shouts, grabbing my good arm, hauling me up.
We sprint back across the loading docks just as forty thousand gallons of water explode outward, a flash flood sweeping the trucks and machinery into chaos. Eighteen-wheelers slam into one another, smashing cargo and metal with violent crunches.
We race to the one truck not overturned yet, clamber onto the trailer as it’s lifted and carried by the flood.
We run—unsteady, slipping—toward the cab, drop down, wrench open the doors, and dive inside.
Alejandro tosses the bagged arm behind the seats, slams the truck into gear, and floors it.
The tires spin on soaked concrete, struggling for purchase.
The truck fishtails once—twice?—
Then lurches forward.
We blast through the factory gates, bounce over a set of rails carrying freight carts, and finally surge onto the open road.
Only when the truck stabilizes do I glance into the side mirror.
All I see is thousands of hot dogs drifting across theflooded yard, bobbing like tiny pink corpses in an ocean of chaos.
Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate hot dogs?
The drive to Chicago is quiet. Bouncy as hell, every pothole rattling my teeth, but quiet. Neither of us feels like talking, not after the day we’ve had. I’m starving, I need a shower that could double as an exorcism, and for once in my life I’m actually grateful not to be babysitting a decomposing corpse in the backseat anymore.
Close enough.
The severed arm jiggles on the metal floor with each bump. It’s gross, but I find myself watching it anyway as Alejandro navigates the truck deeper into the city. The streets get narrower block by block, buildings closing in like they want something from us.
If the chip in that arm is fried, we’re screwed. Back to square one, except this time we’ll be exhausted, half-feral, and probably hunted by every trigger-happy idiot from Tokyo to JFK.
Alejandro breaks the silence. “First forty-eight hours on your contract are nearly up.”
Yeah. I know. My whole body knows. By morning, the initial bounty expires, and then there are only two options.
He glances at me. “You think they’re going to raise it?”
“Yup.”
Normally, for an exile, the price dips after the first window closes. Then it goes open-ended—set reward, noexpiration, whoever brings in the body wins the prize. Exiles are long games. Slow hunts.
But sometimes, not often, the price goes up.
“They blew the bank on the first contract because they wanted a response,” I say. “Since they’re going to fail—and we both know I’m not dying tonight—they’ll raise it. Bigger reward, bigger swarm.”
I lean my head against the vibrating window. “It’s only going to get crazier from here. If you’re backing out, now’s the time.”
