The first thing Fulton noticed when he flipped back to the room was the wall opposite him, riddled with bullets. The holes ran in a line about six inches above where he laid flat on the bed.
He didn’t react at first. He didn’t know how to react. He had never fired a gun, much less been shot at. The closest he’d ever been to live gunfire was playing silly FPS games where terrorists took over the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall of China and half the point was inflicting collateral damage on whatever UNESCO World Heritage Site happened to be playing host to the carnage.
Gradually, as his chip’s sensory damper wore off, Fulton became aware of other details.
Lingering smoke. The smell of cordite.
Plaster dust all over everything as if someone had played Jack Frost with a kilo of cocaine.
Luis and Flannel Shirt lying face-down and bloody on the floor.
Fulton sat alone with the bodies.
Emily was gone.