Beyond Endurance.

Eventually, Andrew pulled himself to the door. These individuals are nuts for believing that drowning is less unpleasant. I'm leaving this madhouse because I'll have a greater chance of surviving elsewhere.

They never saw one other again; another man ran away through another exit. Andrew's senses were sharpened by the shock when he jumped into the cold water. The waves mixed with dust, creating a filthy vortex that dragged him beneath. He struggled, holding on to his hopes of being saved, thinking that anyone would be interested in a jet carrying five people.

As the dust settled, he cursed the pilot's deadly decision amid areas that were becoming clearer. He wanted to murder me! He desired my death! He sank with the plane, but I'll live to prove him wrong! I'll foil his plan!

The sea became clear as the dust dissipated. Bubbles rose from the submerged wreck as the commotion caused brown water to swirl. Andrew drifted, listening to the unrelenting beat of waves—breaking and falling, breaking and falling—while waiting for a rescue that never materialized.

With the exception of the electron coupler wires, the Canadia radiation shield was almost finished. Time was running out as solar satellites picked up rising activity. Radiation threatened, ready to destroy the defenseless. It took Jonathan Aston only a few seconds to pull it off.

In order to save people protected by the Canadia shields, he came up with a last-ditch scheme. He would make use of the defective wires, turning them on just when he needed to. Although they wouldn't last long, survivors might survive the remainder with little damage if they resisted the strongest radiation. Instant death would be avoided, but cancer rates would increase. It was his only remedy.

He timed it carefully, keeping a laser-like eye on the satellite broadcast. If something went wrong, either too soon or too late, the whole force of the radiation would be released. Satellites orbiting Erath warned of its approach. He had to look at each screen. It had to be successful.

His signal flashed across the data, a huge radiation spike. Jonathan gave the shield a power boost. It was alive with a buzz, shielding Canadia from the radiation.

It was a fiery finish for those without shields—bodies burned indestructibly. Only those protected by shields made it out alive.

Jonathan followed the feeds and shield. The spike diminished. Smoke curled from the machine as the first wire blew. Then came the second. As radiation levels decreased, four remained. The shield was weakened when the third and fourth failed together. Some radiation leaked through, but the levels were still too high.

One wire remained after the fifth failed. As the radiation plummeted, the shield quickly weakened. The sixth wire blew, putting out the shield when levels fell below the danger threshold. Its dim mist dissipated, revealing the world once more. The survivors had minor burns that were quickly forgotten, similar to a severe sunburn.

Bodies scattered a barren wasteland all throughout the world. Most of the land was covered with soot and ash. The soil in the north was covered in black—scorched corpses, melted shields, burned houses, and scorched flora.

Jonathan went back to Alpha Shield IV in search of activities to divert the attention of the unshielded dead. He waited for Martin Wilkerson to return with Katherine Branson, his optimism waning every day. The deadline for the will was two months ago. Clinging to faith, Jonathan ignored the document on his computer and resisted its consequences.

On the couch, Katherine Branson sat dejectedly, gazing into space. She had given up on Martin Wilkerson ever coming back. Jonathan hadn't.

Ever on the lookout, he stayed at the house, intending to be the first to welcome Martin Wilkerson when he returned. No, when he comes back. I can't give up.

Sitting in his office, President James Wilton considered the fatalities made possible by his fictitious shields. He should have been plagued with regret, but instead he felt relieved that the agony was done and that he had one less load to carry.

It had been three months since Martin Wilkerson left. Jonathan's optimism also faded. Suppressing emotions, he read his friend's last wishes and printed the will from Martin Wilkerson's computer.

Despite Martin Wilkerson's absence, Katherine Branson prepared meals in the kitchen. Her anguish was soothed by the task. She failed to notice the man walking past the window into Martin Wilkerson's room. She froze as she announced food to Jonathan, who stood there.

With optimism gone, Jonathan sat at the computer. He didn't see the hand severing his neck or the man coming up behind him. It was Katherine Branson.

The intruder pulled out a revolver, and she saw Jonathan fall. The air was pierced by her scream. After turning and aiming, the man started to pull the trigger. She closed her eyes.

Through her lids, a dazzling light burned. With his eyes shaded, the shooter fired wildly, and the bullet hit the ceiling. He squinted against the glare as he raised his arms.

Carlton Scythe was elated. In order to make a deal with the gang and remove his name from their death list, he had taken an additional half million. Maybe he could get rid of everything.

The alley seemed hauntingly deserted at the agreed-upon meeting place. He was usually awaited, but not today. Carlton Scythe should have been alarmed, but he was too focused on his reprieve to notice the absence.

Without a soul, ten minutes passed. Then someone stepped out of the darkness—a hand rose, a hood slipped back, metal flashed, and a savage smile glowed.

As gunshots pounded the metal shield of a dumpster, Carlton Scythe dove behind it. He was unable to endure a flank. He needed to do something.

He was looking around wildly when he noticed something bright a few feet away—in the path of the flames. He might be saved, but getting there could result in a bullet wound. There was nothing he could do.

When the shooter saw him run, he redirected his fire. Bullets closed in, chewing at the concrete. With each blow closer, Carlton Scythe's legs were stung by cement fragments.

He grabbed the piece of metal, his weapon. He was in excruciating pain as a gunshot ripped into his calf. Now he could not afford to fail. He took a deep breath and turned, bullets skimming by.

The trashcan drew near, its haven calling. Blows crept closer, as bullets bit at his heels. With his flesh scraping raw and blood leaking from scrapes, he dove and slid to safety. His leg was handicapped by pain; a bullet had pinched a nerve and wedged against bone. He let out a raw, well-earned scream.

Attracted by the cries, the shooter moved closer to the target. He went around the edge of the dumpster.

His face was pierced by the shard—unexpected death. Shock's features froze, cut by the sharp metal. As if the ground demanded revenge, his body teetered and then slumped, blood soaking into the pavement punctured by bullets.

Carlton Scythe sat, thoughts racing, legs numb, immobile. With his last mission, he had sworn to never kill again. He had been mistaken. He had killed in self-defense and was now tagged, but the mafia didn't give a damn about legality. They would pursue revenge. That meant danger for Carlton Scythe.

Among survivors, Margaret Lowenstein suffered the worst radiation burns, but she recovered. At first, doctors didn't think she would survive. She disregarded them. The residual sting now spurred her thoughts as she soaked in her bathtub.

Her mind was refined by reflection. With every reflection, she felt that the burns had opened her eyes—a radiation-induced epiphany. If accurate, it suggested a plot: the government suppressing intelligence. She would inspire people to support her.

George Rylander sulked in his condo, which had been downgraded due to Maris's chaos. It had destroyed him, reducing his empire—Rylander, Inc., the leading maritime trading company in the world—to nothing. Now, no one called him, and no vessels traveled the trade channels. He didn't think anyone beyond their enclave had survived the radiation. No business, no people, no money. It is the fault of the government. They had the option to stop it, but they choose to ruin me. I'll hold them accountable.