The two flights of stairs weren’t easy to climb. I balanced by palming the walls. When I reached the top I dealt with another locked door, and then I was on the roof. The greentop was regular grass, and hemp bushes competed for space with bamboo. The wind was fast and strong, changing direction randomly. Following a path in the lawn, I walked to the edge of the roof. The city was all lit up, spectacular, the famous Chicago skyline a marvel to behold.
I looked ahead, to the neighboring skyscraper. One story shorter, and perhaps ten yards away. Then I looked down and felt my stomach clench. This was way too high for me. There was no way I’d pull this off. I was better off surrendering.
A bolt of Tesla lightning hit me in the stilt. I staggered backward, then turned around and took five giant steps. I turned again, eyeing the edge of the roof, feeling like I had to vomit.
Just do it. The next building is only thirty feet away. You’ve jumped farther than thirty feet.
“Not in this wind,” I said to myself. “Not at this height.”
Noise, to my right. The cops flooding onto the roof.
I sprinted toward the building’s ledge.
I kept my eyes on my mark. I’d hit the edge with both feet, then spring out into the empty air. No problem.
My first two steps felt pretty good.
On my third step, I remembered a video I’d seen Teague watching, called Insane Kermit Deaths 17, which featured some idiot trying to jump from one building to another. He missed, and when he hit the ground his head came off his body and bounced several yards away.
I changed my mind at my fourth step, realizing this was the king of very bad ideas, but I’d already committed to it now, do or die. Or, more likely, do and die.
I hit the edge of the roof with both feet, bending my knees, screaming into the wind as I launched off the building with every last ounce of my strength.
In a day filled with some really scary shit, this was the worst. The terrifying and unnatural experience of no longer being tethered to the earth. I knew I shouldn’t look down, but I did anyway. A horrible, helpless feeling overcame me, quickly replaced by a wave of anger that I’d do something this monumentally stupid.
I looked ahead. The next skyscraper was fifteen feet away. But the wind gusted against me, pushing me, slowing me, and gravity took its cheap shot as well, mocking my attempt, dragging me down.
Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
I thought about Vicki, about her seeing my splattered remains on the news. Would she always wonder if I was really guilty? Would she know my very last thought was of her?
Then the wind changed, an updraft that pushed me from behind, and I piked my feet in front of me, surprised, amazed, that I was actually going to survive.
I hit the roof, legs together, laughing aloud as my stilts kissed the lawn.
In hindsight, I should have landed on my belly or knees.
Once my feet hit, the frog legs bent and launched me into the air again. A huge hop, bouncing me way up over the top of the building, toward the opposite edge.
I was going too far. I’d miss the ledge by a few feet and fall to my death.
I pinwheeled my arms, trying to turn around in midair, and managed to face backward, watching the ledge disappear beneath me. I stretched out, my fingertips brushing the edge of the skyscraper, catching it for a moment, a moment that lasted long enough for me to have some hope.
Then my grip slipped.
I fell, hugging the side of the building, seeing my own terrified image reflected back at me in the pristine windows.
Insane Kermit Deaths 18, here I come.
This time my last thought wasn’t of Vicki. It wasn’t cursing my own stupidity, either. The only thing in my brain was raw, screaming, animalistic terror. The last few seconds of my life would also be the worst few seconds.
Then my chest smashed into something, followed by my chin. I spread out my arms instinctively, trying to grab whatever I had crashed into. My upper body had caught on some kind of platform, my legs swinging wildly in open air. I looked around and saw I was hanging on an automatic window washer. It slid up and down the side of the building on tracks, using a motorized spray and squeegee. The whole thing was no more than two feet side and five feet long.
It was almost enough to make me start believing in a deity.
Capitalizing on my luck, I kept a death grip on the squeegee arm with my left hand, and used my weaker right to fumble for my Nife. The shoulder strap attached to Teague’s TEV picked that moment to slip off, falling down the length of my forearm. I curled my wrist and caught the strap, and the wind caught the machine, making it—and me—sway back and forth.
Which was when I started to lose my grip on the squeegee.
It made me understand why organized religion failed; ten seconds after I’d begun believing in God, I cursed his name.