Sam points to herself, mimes firing her weapon, and then uses two fingers to simulate running away toward the spiral road. I nod my head.

Sam stands and begins firing the old USW gun at the house. I get to my feet and dart toward the road. Sam walks backward, still firing, pinning the Alt soldier to the corner of the building.

We have to move fast, I think, before the other soldiers arrive.

The road tilts down as I hit the start of the decline.

And then the screech of ultrasonic rounds ceases.

I stop running, my feet skidding on the road, and I turn to see Sam pulling the trigger of her old USW over and over again, but only a weak electronic buzz emanates from the weapon.

“Shit,” she breathes.

“That must be a very old model,” the soldier calls, and I can hear that he is smiling. “Overheating was an issue with USWs one through six. Luckily I have a nineteen.”

And then he’s running toward Sam. I’m thirty, maybe forty yards from her, and with only one bullet left in my antique pistol. Sam stands there, the sun setting in front of her, shock and fear in her eyes, pulling the trigger of the burned-out rifle over and over again, and still no sonic rounds come blasting out of the barrel.

Run, I think. Run, Sam!

But she doesn’t, and the Alt soldier, with his robot lungs and robot heart, is closing the gap at near-impossible speed.

There’s no more time to think. I sprint from behind the car, trying to close the gap. Any second now the Alt’s Lens will pinpoint a spot right between Sam’s eyes, and he’ll fire a round of pure concentrated sound into her, turning her brain into soup.

I make it to the next car as the distance between me and the Alt narrows. I climb up to the roof and raise my pistol to eye level. I see his head in my shaking sights just as he raises his USW to his shoulder. I’m aware that Sam has stopped pulling her trigger. She has let the gun fall to her side and her mouth is slightly open in shock.

“Wait,” she pleads, her hand moving protectively to her stomach.

One shot, I think. You get one shot at this.

I see the look of triumph in the soldier’s face, the satisfaction in his narrowed eyes.

I squeeze the trigger.

The soldier turns into a marionette with its strings cut, and flops down onto the hood of an orange Skyway 15.

We stand there, unmoving, for a full three seconds, before Sam bursts into frenetic laughter.

“How the hell did you make that shot?” she yells, and though she’s laughing, there is a world of alarm in her eyes.