I went back to the cruiser, the one-hour reprieve feeling less like a gift and more like the ticking of a bomb. My mind tried to replay the last fight, picking apart the mistakes and the near misses, but my hands were already moving, ignoring the static in my brain. There was work to do.

  My vest lay crumpled in the trunk, a useless relic from a world that had ended this morning. I stripped the AR-15 magazines from it out of habit, then tossed them back. A glance at the lizard corpses, pockmarked with impotent 5.56 rounds, confirmed what I already knew. The rifle was a noisemaker. Only the deep, clean cuts from my sword and the gaping holes from close-range shotgun blasts told the real story.

  I dug into my go-bag, grabbing what mattered now: boxes of 12-gauge shells. Slugs and buckshot. I stuffed my pockets until they bulged, the weight of the shells a small, grim comfort. Beneath the bag, I saw a long, black hard case I didn’t recognize. What the hell is this?

  I glanced over at Jamie. The kid was staring at the gate, his thousand-yard stare still fresh. His fingers twitched, anxiety rolling off him in waves.

  “Jamie,” I said. His head snapped toward me. “What’s this?”

  He looked from the case to the gate and back, and for a second, a flicker of kid-like excitement cut through his fear. He scrambled over to the trunk.

  “The Chief said to take what we needed from the armory, so I just grabbed it in case,” he started, the words tumbling out in a rush.

  “Jamie,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “What is it?”

  “A .50 cal sniper rifle.”

  The words hung in the air. I looked at the case, then at him. A .50 cal. A real, honest-to-god cannon. A tool that might actually punch a hole in one of these things from more than ten feet away.

  “You’re telling me you stuffed a Barrett in the back of the cruiser?” I asked, a sliver of disbelief in my voice.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  A slow grin spread across my face. “Holy crap, kid. That’s amazing.” The smile on his face was wide and genuine. “Are you qualified on it?” I asked.

  The smile vanished. “No,” he mumbled, looking embarrassed. “I was hoping you were.” Of course he wasn’t. He was a rookie, barely trusted with a shotgun.

  “No,” I said, my own brief flicker of hope dimming. “But I bet one of these SWAT guys is.” My eyes scanned the line of operators who were reloading and checking their gear.

  I hefted the case. Its weight was negligible, barely a noticeable shift in my hand. I walked over to a trio of them huddled behind a disabled BearCat. They were the ones Logan had just initiated into our fucked-up little club. They weren’t looking at their rifles; they were staring at the impossible new weapons in their hands. The tall one held a warhammer that looked like it could cave in a cinderblock wall. The second turned a short, curved blade, a Kodachi, over and over. The third, a guy with a sour look on his face, had a plain-looking shortsword at his feet. He eyed the case on my shoulder.

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  “Hey,” I said. The two with the new toys flinched. “Names?”

  “Gideon,” the tall one with the hammer grunted.

  “Flynn,” said the other.

  The third guy just stared at me. “Why should I tell you?” he asked, his tone all piss and vinegar.

  Just another asshole with a badge. “Trying to learn the names of the guys I’m fighting with,” I said, my voice deliberately flat.

  “His name is Travis,” Gideon supplied, confirming my assessment. “And he’s an asshole.”

  Travis scoffed, his eyes still locked on the case. “What’s in there?”

  “The department’s .50 cal,” I said. “Who’s the best shot on your team?”

  Travis’s eyes lit up with a greedy little spark. “I am,” he said, puffing out his chest.

  Gideon let out a short, barking laugh. “Yeah, right. You had the worst score at last year’s quals.”

  “I sprained my arm working out,” Travis snapped, a blotchy red creeping up his neck. “Here, give it to me.” He held out a hand.

  I looked from his hand to the common shortsword at his feet. “Sorry, you got a melee weapon. That means you’re on the front line with me.”

  The color drained from his face. “Uh, I can’t,” he stammered. “Sprained my ankle on the way over here.” The lie was so pathetic it was almost impressive, especially since the System healed minor injuries the second you registered.

  “My rifle, my rules,” I said, turning to Gideon. “So, who’s the best shot?”

  “Shanira,” he said without hesitation, pointing to a petite female operator who was meticulously field-stripping her rifle.

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I looked back at Gideon and Flynn. “Listen, your rifles will keep their heads down, but they won’t kill them. These things…” I gestured to the hammer and the blade. “…these are what works. The System gave them to you for a reason. Get a feel for them. Your life is about to depend on how well you can swing them. Lose any gear that slows you down.”

  I leaned in closer. “You’ll also have a menu screen with Stat points. Don't ignore them. Figure out what you need. More strength for the hammer, more speed for the blade. Then assign the points. It's the only edge we've got.”

  Travis’s face contorted with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are, you cocky asshole? You’re not even from North District. Fuck off.”

  I just shrugged. His opinion meant less than nothing.

  “Thank you,” Gideon and Flynn said in unison.

  I walked the line, handing out the rest of the shotgun shells. “Slugs and buckshot are what works!” I repeated to each group. “Aim for the underbelly and the joints! Make every shot count!”

  I stopped when I got to Shanira. “Hey,” I said.

  She looked up, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she reassembled her weapon. “Hey. You’re the guy from Valen PD, right?”

  “Elias,” I said, holding out a hand. She took it. Her grip was firm.

  “Shanira. How can I help?”

  “I heard you’re the best shot on your team.” A grin touched my lips.

  A confident smile played on hers. “Depends on who you ask. Travis would probably say otherwise, but the scorecard from last quals says I wiped the floor with him.”

  Yeah, I like her already.

  “Then this is for you,” I said, setting the case gently on the grass. I clicked open the locks.

  Her eyes went wide. “Whoa. Is that a Barrett M107A1?”

  “Probably,” I laughed. I only knew it made big things dead. “Think you can handle her?”

  Her eyes were practically sparkling. “You’re not kidding?” She stared at the rifle like it was a winning lottery ticket. “I know the world is ending, but this feels like Christmas,” she whispered, running a reverent hand along the barrel. Then she looked up, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful to the dead.”

  “I know what you meant,” I said with a smile. “It’s okay to be excited about a tool that might keep the rest of us from joining them. So, can you handle it?”

  “Definitely,” she said, awe still lacing her voice. I glanced in the case and saw a bandolier and numerous boxes of ammunition cut into the foam casing. Luckily there was lots of ammunition for the giant rifle.

  “Good,” I said. “Give them hell.”

  She didn’t answer, already lost in the beautiful, deadly mechanics of the rifle. I turned away. There was still more work to do.