at the western edge of the city. He figured he could find a place to
hide out overnight, think things through. And indeed he came upon
a stone bridge that crossed the creek.
Trolls lived under bridges, at least in games. And when he slid
down the muddy embankment a troll is what he found. A man, large,
maybe a crazy street person, maybe not.
“Hey. You,” the man said. “This is my place. Get lost.” The man came closer. His rough, pendulous features brightened
with avarice as he saw the not-very-large boy. The rain was back, and
Billy was tired.
The man made a suggestion for just how Billy could pay for the
right to stay dry.
So Billy stuck a nine-millimeter pistol in his face and said, “Go
away.” It was getting to be a habit.
The phone chimed.
The man laughed, thinking the gun was a toy.
“Get over here and—”
The explosion lit up the bridge overhead. The bullet, aimed past
the man’s face, but not much past it, hit the water in the rain-swollen
creek.
“Jesus!” the man yelped.
“I already shot a bunch of people yesterday,” Billy said. “So I can
shoot you.”
Billy was alone when he read the text message.
Stay hidden. Help coming. Lear.
A few hundred miles north, in New York, Burnofsky watched the data flow on his screen.
Four Hydras had each made a copy of themselves.
Eight Hydras had each made a copy of themselves.
Sixteen Hydras had each made a copy of themselves.
Thirty-two . . .
Sixty-four . . .