Interlude

South Beach, Miami, USA, 3:17 PM EST

“Yo dude, pump it, pump it!”

Chris spun the wheel as they came tearing off the intercoastal causeway, sliding down the McArthur at over 120 mph into the Alton Road intersection. His boss’s prized BMW M5 G-Power Hurricane RRs’s tires screeched as they fought for traction, then they caught and the supercharger kicked in.

The $800,000 car blew down Alton, heading parallel to the intercostal’s waters, tearing up the two-lane road, Chris hunched over the custom leather wheel, driving like a motherfucker as Enrique screamed out the open window like his insides were on fire.

Sirens tore at the air, screams, and they knifed past a burning sedan that was rammed into the side of a parking garage. Chris tapped the brakes, slowed, swerved into the other lane around a flipped over pickup haloed by rubble - it had to have driven right off the top of the parking garage - and then hit the gas again and flew.

A Nem3 was lumbering through the intersection up ahead, its sword arms carving grooves into the gray asphalt. It looked up just as Chris hit the horn and swerved around it, faster than thought, the racing tires allowing it to curl and bolt under a swipe before the demon even knew they were there.

Enrique popped up the sunroof and sprayed it with his Uzi, screaming the whole time, then nearly fell out the car as Chris slammed on the brakes, the racing tires gripping the street and taking them from 90 to 25 in seconds.

Four more Nem3’s were in the 10th Street intersection up ahead. They oriented on their car, hunched over, got ready to launch harpoons.

“Hold on!” screamed Chris as he hit the gas and yanked up the hand brake. The BMW screamed as it tore around, the stench of burning rubber filling the air. Soon as they were pointed back the other way it leaped forward again, right at the first Nem3, only for Chris to tear the tire around and shoot down 9th toward the beach.

The street was choked with parked cars, corpses, and palm tree had fallen across the lanes. Chris grabbed Enrique by the belt and hauled him down just as they sped under the tree. Enrique ceased screaming, blinked, wiped at the mustache of coke on his upper lip and turned on the radio.

Pure bass began to pump.

They raced past white blocky apartment buildings, the sky righteously blue and pure, the white metal fences, the broad pink sidewalks, the little cafes, the bright green hedges all blurring by.

They hit the Jefferson intersection fast enough to fly, came down hard, bounced, tore down the next block. Another Nem3 lurched out of a building, huge, blind head swinging from side to side.

Chris hit the gas, swung out as wide as the narrow two lanes allowed him, then cut back in so that the rear of the car drifted down the lane, scraping at the driver doors of the parked cars.

The Nem3 lunged forward, bringing its sword arm down, just barely missed them.

Enrique screamed his laugh again, popped out the sunroof again and emptied the last of his clip at the demon. Dropped the gun, reached into the backstreet and grabbed a huge, 1980’s styled Rambo rifle with a big-ass Tommy gun drum from the mass of weapons and explosives.

Chris focused on the narrow street, curling the car around corpses, open car doors, spilt trashcans. A few seconds later they burst out onto Washington Ave, one of the main commercial strips. Chris tore the wheel around, the back fishtailing.

For a second he considered shooting down Washington - he could take that all the way down - but then saw a gunfight ranging, the popopop brrr sounding over the blasting bass, a handful of MPD cops and dudes with AK-47’s retreating before a Nem3. So he cut back, slid almost all the way sideways before correcting and blasting through Collins and bursting out on Ocean fucking Drive.

Enrique steadied himself, rested the huge gun atop the car and opened fire on the old school Art Deco buildings.

“Dude!” Chris’s scream was drowned by the music. “Dude what the fuck you doin’!?”

“Aaarrghhh!” screamed Enrique, the huge bullets shattering windows, shredding aquamarine canopies, cutting through slender palm tree trunks.

“Fuck!” There were bodies everywhere. Fucking massacre had taken place here, and there was the Nem, turning to stare at them. Chris cut right, leaving Ocean Drive, hopping onto the huge sidewalk and kept going, onto the grassy lawn to weave between more palm trees as he downshifted, leaving the Nem3 behind and then curling back around to bounce onto Ocean Drive again.

“Motherfuckers!” screamed Enrique, spraying the rifle everywhere.

“We’re almost there, bro!” Chris reached for another Red Bull, found only empty cans. “Almost there!”

A blur. A shadow fell before them, both sword-arms slammed down onto the very nose of the BMW’s hood, drove it like a nail into the car.

The back flipped up. The whole car left the road, flipped, the world spinning, and for a second Chris was held only by the seatbelt.

Then the world came slamming back as the BMW slammed onto the road beyond the Nem, suspension wrecked as the whole chassis crashed onto the road, the hood pinched to shit -

“Enrique?” Chris twisted around. “Enrique!”

Enrique was fucking gone.

Chris adjusted the rearview mirror. Got an eyeful of Nem3 staring at him.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” He twisted around, reached for a grenade in the footwell, unbuckled, kicked the door open, fell out of the car just as the Nem landed on it, pounding the cab flat. Chris bit the pin out of the grenade, tossed it over his shoulder and ran.

The grenade blew and then detonated the shit in the backseat.

The explosion lifted Chris right off the road and flung him up onto the awnings above the dining tables set before the restaurant. He rolled up, rolled back down, then fell to the curb.

For a moment he just lay there, ears ringing, then he raised his head. He was lying out before Mango’s. Behind was a crater where the car had been.

The Nem was blasted apart.

Music. Classic salsa.

How many times had he visited Mango’s when he’d first arrived in Miami? Babes in actual leopard print leotards. Expensive drinks. Tourists looking to party.

The interior of the bar was shadowed, inviting. His back was on fire. With a groan he rose to his feet.

It was just ten blocks to the Delano.

Ten blocks to Esteban and his guys.

Ten blocks to safety.

But the car was gone. Enrique? He couldn’t even see what had happened to Enrique. How was he going to show up without Esteban’s son?

Dazed, he wandered into Mangos.

Ears still ringing he walked past the hostess stand, into the gloom. Second floor balconies ringed the floor. Here and there was a dead person. They didn’t even look real.

Three people were sitting at the bar having drinks. One all in black, a bouncer’s outfit, the second a drop-dead gorgeous Victoria Secret- styled babe, the third an old guy in a pink polo shirt.

Chris staggered up.

“Hey brother,” said the guy in black.

The girl and old guy glanced over at him, back to the old guy’s phone that was playing a news channel. It showed an ambulance being filmed from the air, a chopper or something following it as it raced through an urban wasteland.

For a moment nobody spoke.

“What happened?” asked Chris.

“President’s dead,” said the girl. “Bitch got himself killed even with all the Secret Service and shit.”

“Oh man,” said Chris.

They watched the ambulance racing through what had to be DC.

The sound of a distant explosion washed over them, the kind of deep, multi-layered blast that put his grenade to shame.

“What was that?” asked Chris.

“Dunno,” said the guy in black.

“Sounds like a building collapsed,” said the old guy. “Hi. I’m Marv. Get yourself a drink.”

“Thanks.” Chris felt as if he’d fallen into a rabbit hole of surreal calm. He reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of tequila, took a swig.

Marv swiped on his phone. A shaky cam was trained on a reporter one Brickell Avenue, the business district on the mainland. “… the complete collapse of the National Guard, with last sightings of the forces fleeing north to Ft. Lauderdale, leaving millions to face the demons alone -”

“Turn that off,” said the woman.

Marv obliged.

The four of them sat in silence.

“Yo, if we get to the Delano, there are people there who can protect us,” said Chris, rousing himself. “My boss is there with thirty of his guys. He’s serious business.”

“Nobody is protecting anybody anymore,” said the woman. “It’s every cat for herself. It’s all over.”

“I’m afraid she’s right,” sighed Marv. “You see what happened in the Grove?”

“I just drove in from the Gables. It looked… bad.”

“Everybody’s dead.” Marv took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Last estimate anybody bothered to make was at over half a million dead in Dade County alone. Nem1’s, Nem2’s, Nem3’s… this is their town now. The Blue Light guys…” He snapped his fingers. “The MPD?” He snapped his fingers. “The National Guard?”

Gunfire erupted from close-by, then a scream, then the sound of glass shattering.

Chris took another swig from the tequila. It helped with the pain burning up his back. He couldn’t get his thoughts straight.

“I’m going to go for a swim,” said the woman, standing up. “You guys want to come?”

“Sure,” said the guy in black.

They rose and walked out into the sunlight. Chris watched them go, both of them peeling off their clothing as they circled the cratered BMW.

A Nem3 dropped on them from above and hacked them apart.

Chris jerked back on his stool, but Marv just shook his head.

“Looks like it’s our turn.”

Chris lurched up, but Marv grabbed his arm. “Son, take it from me. There’s nowhere to go. Best you can do is die with dignity.”

Chris gaped at the man. “What?”

“Die with dignity. Here. One last shot. Sit. If you gotta go, might as well go out in style.”

Chris looked over his shoulder. The Nem3 had ducked under the broad awnings and was making its way through the scattered tables and chairs into the bar.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, his legs turning to jelly.

He sat.

“To a good run.” Marv raised his glass. “It was a sweet two hundred thousand years. But all good things must come to an end.”

Chris tore his gaze away from the Nem3 and stared at Marv.

The old man’s eyes were porcelain blue and filled with calm compassion.

Something about his expression, his poise, his resignation stilled Chris’s panic.

His breath was coming in sharp, shallow pants. He knew he was too fucked up to get away. The pain in his back was growing, growing, growing.

So he took up the bottle of tequila.

“To a good run,” he whispered.

They clinked.

Marv tossed back his shot.

The Nem3 entered all the way into Mango’s and raised both sword-arms.