The Attack of the Dead Men

  Fujikawa Corp. Tower, Tokyo, Japan

  60th Floor, Executive security Checkpoint

  10:00 p.m.

  I listened closely to the radio communications from Alpha and Bravo, hearing how the fierce battle on the 35th floor was unfolding. I could hear the gunfire, orders, radio interference, and explosions. My squad was getting beaten badly. John McClane, the tough-guy parody, turned out not to be a farce—she was an unstoppable force of destruction.

  "Detroit here. Tokyo and Berlin are dead!"

  "Frankfurt has a hole in his chest the size of a soccer ball; he won't make it."

  "Budapest has an arterial hemorrhage. The guy's fucked up. He'll be dead in two minutes."

  "I'm with Dimitri in the elevator, retreating and bandaging his wounds."

  "I think Team Alpha is dead, too."

  "That white girl is the demon!"

  It was the first time I’d heard Detroit speak so pessimistically. He had already been through the trenches of war without flinching, just like his ancestors during the October Revolution and the march from Stalingrad to Berlin. He honored them in battle with the same resolve, yet this fight had already changed him. My team wasn’t made up of green recruits. Several of them had more than ten years of frontline combat experience, and some had even survived the Eastern Front of the Continental War. That was precisely why we were together — and yet, this mission had pushed us to our limits.

  This wasn’t the parody from the movie Die Hard; this was truly the demon’s lair and we’d walked straight into its hunting grounds. My soldiers were its prey. For her this wasn’t a death struggle — it was entertainment: sadism dressed up as weakness, only to reveal its true face and crush the enemy without difficulty.

  We can’t beat her in a straight fight, but there’s another way we can still win this game. We simply have to finish the job — steal the money. We have to avoid her at all costs while distracting her long enough for the continuation plan.

  I can’t let the others know that we probably won’t get out of this alive.

  But what is a man when faced with his own certain annihilation — what true personality will emerge from that?

  ““The cause requires it” is what I tell myself.

  Unfortunately that will be the phrase that takes me to the grave, but even so there is a job to do.

  "Zima, this is Sasha."

  "The vault's open. I'm in the system, but access to the computer is sealed.

  “I only need the old man’s crypto key to start the transfer.”

  The key. I felt it in the pocket of my vest, a small metal device that now felt like a slab. It was the final piece of our plan, the one that would open the digital safe and drain Fujikawa's cryptocurrencies. Against all odds, the plan was still breathing.

  "On my way," I answered, my voice a hoarse echo of what it once was.

  "Hold position."

  The trip up to the 80th floor was filled with an oppressive silence. Over the radio, I heard the latest reports of the others teams and how sasha had bypassed the vault's final defenses. But they needed the key. My key. When the doors opened, Fujikawa's office was a tangle of cables and hacking equipment. Sasha was crouched in front of the monumental oak table; the glow of a portable screen lit his pale face.

  "Zima, you made it just in time," he said without looking up. "The vault is on the other side of this panel, but it has a timing mechanism. Once we enter the code, there will be a five-minute delay before it opens. Designed to thwart quick robberies, of course."

  I nodded and slid the key toward him. "Do it fast. We don't have much time."

  Sasha inserted the key into a special port on his device. There was a soft click, and a section of the wall behind the desk slid silently aside, revealing a narrow staircase that lead up to the 81st floor. The air was cold and stale, as if no one had been down there in years. At the end was a reinforced steel door—the vault—looming imposingly.

  Sasha typed quickly on his device. "The code is entered. The timer's started." A screen beside the vault showed a countdown: 04:59... 04:58. Every second felt like an eternity. My men were being decimated on the lower floors while we waited for the timer to give us access to our loot.

  While we waited, I contacted the remnants of the Whiskey Team, who were stationed on the 60th floor, to coordinate the transfer.

  "Prepare the wallet farms," I ordered.

  "As soon as we have access to the laptop, we'll begin downloading."

  "..."

  "Yes, sir. Computers are ready and waiting."

  Finally, a metallic snap broke the silence. The vault door slowly opened, revealing a minimalist interior. In the center, on an isolated pedestal, sat a sleek, thin laptop that was lethally secure. It was the key to Fujikawa's digital fortunes.

  Sasha approached carefully and connected the laptop to her rig with an armored cable. "The access key is recognized. Initiating transfer sequence.”

  "Whiskey here, initiating transfer."

  "Estimated time: 15 minutes."

  Sasha’s fingers flew over the keyboard, unlocking the security protocols. I watched the code execute on the screens, redirecting the cryptocurrencies to a network of wallets scattered around the world and prepared in advance for this moment. Suddenly, Sasha noticed something new on her computer.

  "Sir, external communications are still blocked, but the police are organizing outside."

  “Patrols are already taking positions around the building.”

  "SAT trucks have been deployed. We have little time."

  "Whiskey here. HQ confirms receipt of funds and urges us to keep up the income."

  The steady hum of the funds transfer was the only constant sound amid the chaos. Four minutes and 32 seconds remaining. On the security monitors that were still working, I saw blue and red police lights illuminating the base of the building. A perfect perimeter. We were surrounded.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then it rang. It wasn't the tactical radio, but rather the office landline on the 80th floor—a line that should have been dead. Sasha looked at me, alarmed.

  “Zima, it’s an external line. Someone has reactivated it from the outside.”

  With resignation, I took the phone from the Fujikawa office.

  “Speaking… Zima.”

  “Zima. I’m Inspector Yamamoto, from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.”

  “I suppose you already know how this goes; I’m calling as a matter of police courtesy.”

  “One of two things is going to happen.”

  “Option A: You admit you’re a petty thief whose quick-money scheme spiraled wildly out of control and you want to see how to get out of this alive.”

  “Or Option B — and more likely — you’re part of a professional team with every last detail thought out and planned to perfection, so talking to you isn’t part of your plan, I imagine.”

  Yamamoto. The name echoed in my memory. The dossiers mentioned him. A veteran from the Cold War era, a JSDF operative in the shadows who had hunted, and been hunted by, men like me. He wouldn’t buy tales of lies and fantasies the way ordinary cops would. He knew how we worked. He knew time was a weapon.

  “...........”

  “Option B, I’m going to imagine.”

  “Look, kid, let’s not play dumb — I know you people are professionals.”

  “You know this situation has only one ending. I suggest we shorten the road.

  “Release the hostages now, and the conversation about your exit can begin.”

  “Release the hostages, starting with the women and children, and I guarantee you a safe corridor to negotiate the terms of your surrender.”

  “Your proposals lack incentives, Inspector.”

  “The hostages are our insurance. While they’re here, your SAT will hesitate before turning this place into a war zone.” I paused, calculating.

  “We need… let’s say, another two hours. After that we’ll start releasing them in groups.”

  “Zima, don’t insult me. Two hours is what you need to finish whatever you’re doing in there and to dig in.”

  “You are not in a position to ask for time. You’re in a position to surrender and avoid a massacre.”

  “You’re the ones locked in here with the white girl, not me.”

  The damned bastard was playing me — somehow he already knew what was really happening and the mortal danger our enemy represented. He knew we were the monster’s prey inside here; he only had to wait for the problem to resolve itself without doing anything. The only thing he was playing for was to save the lives of a couple more hostages.

  “Are you telling me you’re complicit with that dangerous monster, Inspector?”

  “Aren’t you acting like you’re above the law? Your duty is to rescue innocent people alive from people like us.”

  “Well, the white girl wasn’t a problem until you attacked.”

  “The building wasn’t on fire before you showed up, if I remember correctly.”

  “As for the hostages, I imagine they’ll come out one way or another — to be honest I never really expected you to give us anything from the start.”

  “From my point of view this is a problem that will solve itself.”

  “The good ending would be that you surrender, release the hostages, we arrest you, and you go to jail.”

  “A neutral ending would be that you are eliminated by the white girl without me having to do anything, and I simply collect the hostages.”

  “The bad ending — some hostages die, but you still won’t get out of this alive either.”

  “In none of those do you win.”

  “......”

  “In fact, I have some here who are calling for a bit of action — the SAT captain is eager to put his men to the test and gain some recognition.”

  “I even have a Senator at my side watching all this impatiently; I think the guy is looking for a way to use the response to a terrorist act as a show of force to other countries and some other bullshit.”

  “They’re the ones pressuring me to let them storm the building and let you continue with your plans.”

  “Aren’t you going to try to de-escalate the situation? This goes against police values.”

  “Why would I? Do you really think you’ll be releasing the hostages in the first place?”

  “I need you to show me courtesy if you expect mine.”

  “Don’t worry, I already made sure this call won’t be recorded to begin with.”

  Before I could give a new order, I overheard a brief exchange before the line went dead — one I never expected to unfold so suddenly.

  “Senator Yoshida?”

  “Inspector Yamamoto, my patience is wearing thin.”

  “The image of this nation cannot be stained any longer by these terrorist worms.”

  “We must prove that Japan is a nation capable of defending itself — we cannot fall behind the Alliance!”

  “I am granting formal authorization myself.”

  “SAT, commence the frontal assault. Retake my building.”

  A chill deeper than the steel walls of the vault ran down my spine. It hadn’t been a bluff.

  The politician had pressed the button.

  “Attention, Team Ron! Maximum alert! Imminent assault on the lobby!” I roared into the radio — but it was already too late.

  ?Zima, this is Ron! They’re coming in! We’re being flanked from the east and west entrances!?

  London’s voice was a strained growl, broken by short bursts from his rifle.

  ?We’ve got positions! We’re holding them at the—!?

  The transmission cut out with a screech of static. Another voice — Barcelona’s, breathless and urgent — took over.

  ?London’s down! There’s too many— they’re pushing through with shields—! Vienna, cover the—!?

  *Bang! Bang! BANG!*

  A massive explosion — unlike any before — shook the building’s foundations.

  It wasn’t an assault charge; it was the controlled demolition my team had set.

  "Zima! Charges on the main stairways… detonated! Lower elevators… neutralized!" Barcelona’s voice was now a ragged whisper, a final breath. "The lobby… is a tomb. They… too. The cause… so be it…"

  Silence.

  I leaned against the cold wall of the office, closing my eyes for a second. Vienna, Barcelona, London… the entire Ron Team. Tough men, loyal to the very end. They had turned the lobby into a deathtrap, sacrificing themselves to seal the main access routes and buy us the most precious commodity of all: time.

  I looked at Sasha, her fingers flying across the keyboard, her pale face illuminated by the progress bars on the screen.

  "Progress?" I asked, my voice strangely calm.

  "Ninety-two percent, Zima. Ninety-two… The blockchain network servers are congested; transactions are slow. We need a few more minutes!"

  A few minutes. An eternity. The SAT would be regrouping, searching for alternate routes up. Our temporary advantage was a resource quickly running out.

  "We no longer have a lobby to defend. We fall back. All remaining teams, abandon lower-floor positions. Converge on the 90th floor, the restaurant. Whiskey, cover our retreat. Tequila, status?"

  "This is Tequila. Communication and power lockout systems are holding. But, Zima…" Dimitri’s voice sounded strange, confused.

  "We’re detecting… anomalous thermal activity. On the outer walls. Multiple heat signatures… climbing. Fast. Stupidly fast."

  "Those aren’t… conventional climbing tactics." It was Sasha speaking now, her eyes fixed on a secondary monitor showing the building’s thermal layout.

  "The heat pattern is… erratic. Too fast. And Senator Yoshida… has just authorized the deployment of a unit that isn’t in our records."

  She turned to me, and for the first time that night, I saw a flash of genuine terror in her eyes.

  "Zima… he’s authorized the deployment of SECTOR D."

  The name meant nothing to me. But Sasha’s tone meant everything.

  "SECTOR D? An elite SAT unit?" I asked, though something in my gut already knew the answer.

  "No," Sasha whispered, enlarging a thermal image. It showed seven humanoid silhouettes, but their heat distribution was uniform, unnatural—like their bodies had no cold spots. "They’re not responding to SAT channels. They’re not JSDF. They’re… something else. And they’re climbing. Up the building’s exterior. Right now."

  "What the hell are those things!?"

  I looked at the main screen: 95%.

  The battle against the police was over. We had won that round—at a bloody cost. But now, a new nightmare, one whose existence we had never even suspected, was crawling up the side of the skyscraper to meet us.

  "Whiskey, take defensive positions on the 90th floor. Seal the staircase and the executive elevator. Dimitri, be ready to cut power to these floors if necessary."

  My mind, clouded by grief and fatigue, clung to the only constant left.

  “Sasha, don’t take your eyes off that screen. That transfer is the only thing that matters now."

  We were entrenched in the rotating restaurant, the Final Stand, where we are going to end the work. The elevator doors burst open, but my comrades weren't the ones who came out. It was the white-haired girl, covered in blood from the battle in the elevator. Beside her were the still-warm bodies of my former brothers-in-arms.

  A window shattered on the far side of the room. A humanoid figure dressed entirely in black, with a motorcycle helmet concealing its head, emerged. It must have climbed the building from the outside—that thing had ascended from the outside ninety floors in just three minutes.

  But, surprisingly, it didn’t raise its weapon against us… it aimed at the white-haired girl instead.