Recursion - Blake Crouch Page 0,63

and out of focus, the glass shards on the floor from the shot-out windows slicing into his arms and a cold rain blowing into the building. The walls are peppered with bullet holes, and a haze of smoke permeates the air with a taste like metal and sulfur in the back of his throat.

Barry crawls through a scattering of his .40-caliber shell casings, and he tries to call out to Helena, but her name leaves his lips as nothing but a whimper.

He pulls himself the rest of the way to the entrance. It takes a moment for his vision to sharpen into focus. Helena stands at the terminal, her fingers flying across an array of keyboards and touchscreens. Summoning his voice, he wills it to project her name.

She glances back at him. “I know you’re hurting. I’m going as fast as I can.”

“What are you doing?” Barry asks, each breath more agonizing than the one before it, and carrying less oxygen to his brain.

“I’m going back to the memory of cutting myself in that hotel room.”

“Jee-woon and Sergei are gone.” He coughs up blood. “Just…destroy everything now.”

“Slade’s still out there,” Helena says. “If he escapes, he could build another chair. I need you to guard the door. I know you’re hurting, but can you do that? Let me know if he comes.” She moves away from the terminal, climbing onto the curved body of the memory chair.

“I’ll try,” Barry says.

He rests his head against the cool floor.

“We’ll get the next one right,” Helena says. Reaching up, she carefully pulls down the MEG microscope.

As she secures the chin strap, Barry fights to keep his eyes on the corridor, knowing if Slade comes, there’s nothing he can do to stop him. He doesn’t even have the strength to raise his weapon.

The dead memories of him dying in the last timeline finally shred into his consciousness.

The elevator doors opening to the entryway of Slade’s penthouse.

Slade standing in his immaculate living room of windows pointing a revolver into the elevator car.

Barry thinking, Fuck. He knew.

A burst of light without sound.

Then—nothing.

Through the fog of death, Barry struggles to glance one last time into the lab, sees Helena tearing off her shirt, sliding her jeans down her legs, and climbing into the deprivation tank.

* * *

Barry is sprinting down a corridor, his nose bleeding, head throbbing. The pain of getting shot in the previous timeline is gone, the memories of this new one cascading into place.

He and Helena came up from Room 825.

Stepped off the elevator onto 17, took a different route to the lab, intending to catch Jee-woon and Slade coming off the elevator.

But they ran into Sergei instead and lost way too much time getting through him.

Now they’re racing for the lab.

Barry wipes the blood from his nose and blinks through the saltwater sting of sweat in his eyes.

They round a corner and reach the door to the lab, which Helena opens with a shotgun blast. Barry charges in first, two thunderous gunshots erupting that miss his head by less than a foot. To his surprise, the shots came from a man he’s seen once before—eleven years ago, on the night he was sent back into a memory.

Marcus Slade is standing twenty feet away by the terminal, wearing a white tank top and gray shorts, as if he just came from the gym, his curly, dark hair slicked back with sweat.

He’s holding a satin stainless revolver and staring at Barry with total recognition.

Barry puts a round through his right shoulder, Slade stumbling back into the array of control panels, the gun slipping from his grasp as he slides down onto the floor.

Helena rushes to the deprivation tank and pulls the emergency release lever.

By the time Barry reaches the tank, she’s already opening the hatch to expose Jee-woon floating on his back in the saltwater, desperately trying to pull the IV port out of his left forearm.

Barry holsters the Glock, reaches into the warm water, and hauls Jee-woon out, throwing him across the room.

Jee-woon hits the floor and rights himself, looking up at Barry and Helena, on his hands and knees, naked and dripping on the tile. He looks at Slade’s gun, eight feet away, and lunges for it, Barry tracking him, and as he fires, so does Helena, the full load of buckshot slamming Jee-woon against the wall, his chest a gaping wound, and his strength rushing out of him apace with his blood.

Barry moves carefully toward him, keeping the gun