Chaos Rising

by Kyla Stone

  Fear constricted Liam’s lungs, his heart tightening like a fist. David was right. The pilot might’ve been fighting to lift the nose from its downward glide, but it wasn’t working.

  The plane floated closer, eerily silent. The nose dipped lower and lower.

  The plane was going down.

  And it was going down right on top of them.

  “Run!” David shouted. He turned to the stunned crowd and flailed his arms. “Run! Go! Go!”

  Panicked screams filled the air as hundreds of people turned and fled. Cell phones and shopping bags fell to the ground, utterly forgotten.

  Mothers seized their sons’ and daughters’ hands. Fathers grabbed their toddlers and preschoolers as they ran. Men and women pushed each other to get through the slog of vehicles and packed sidewalks.

  An elderly woman fell. A man stooped to help her to her feet, pushing back the crowd. Packs of people swirled around them and kept going.

  “I’m still stuck!” Jessa cried.

  Terror and dread thrummed through Liam’s veins. He didn’t freeze or flee—he switched into soldier mode, his years of training coming back like muscle memory. Don’t panic. Assess the situation. Get your people and get the hell out.

  He whipped around, searching for Lincoln. Where the hell was he? He wasn’t on the sidewalks, wasn’t one of the people struggling out of their cars or racing down the middle of the avenue.

  David’s wild gaze darted from Jessa trapped in the car to Liam. He backed away, hands up in a gesture of surrender—or helplessness. “I’m sorry, man! I’m sorry!”

  David spun and fled with the crowds, a bright orange blotch among hundreds.

  Liam couldn’t run. Not without Jessa. Not without his brother.

  Think, damn it, think! Lincoln had been standing on the other side of their Audi just a minute ago—

  Adrenaline pouring through his veins, Liam dashed around the car, slip-sliding on the icy road. He rounded the bumper to find his brother flat on the ground, curled into a fetal position, hands over his head. His eyes were opened but wide and glassy, and staring at nothing.

  He crouched beside his brother and shook his shoulders. Nothing.

  “Lincoln!” he shouted.

  He slapped him hard in the face. No response.

  His brother was stuck in that trauma-induced fugue he knew well from childhood. When it got so bad that he couldn’t deal, his brother just went away somewhere inside his head.

  The first plane’s explosion must’ve triggered it. The PTSD had only made it worse.

  Panic threatened to overtake him. It would take minutes—maybe longer—to pull Lincoln out of it. Until then, he was no better than a dead weight.

  Liam would have to drag him out of the line of fire.

  The reality of his situation struck him like a gut-punch. Jessa was nine months pregnant. She could barely walk, let alone run. She was still trapped in the car.

  She needed his help. So did Lincoln.

  He couldn’t save them both.

  Blood rushed in his ears. His pounding heart felt like it was about to hammer right out of his chest. Fear and indecision warred within him, freezing him in place.

  The plane plummeted, silent death about to descend upon their heads.

  A hundred memories of combat flashed through his head simultaneously—fiery explosions, billowing smoke, bullets zinging past his skull, the agonized screams of his brothers in arms, every second a life-or-death decision, every move possibly the last one you’d ever make.

  It was a split-second decision. One that would haunt him for the rest of his life. If he didn’t make this choice, Lincoln would hate him forever.

  Either way, Liam already hated himself.

  He leapt to his feet and sprinted around to the other side of the car. He left his brother behind.

  4

  Liam already had his tactical knife out as he crouched beside the opened passenger door.

  “Where’s Lincoln?” Jessa cried. “Where is he?”

  Liam sawed through the seatbelt strap below her swollen belly, hating himself for not freeing her long before. It was a mistake. And it would cost them.

  The belt released. He grabbed her hands and jerked her from the car. “Run! Go!”

  She twisted back, aghast. “Lincoln!”

  No time to explain or waste precious energy. If they didn’t go now, they were both dead.

  Liam wrapped his arm around her ribs beneath her arms and dragged her, half-running, half-stumbling. They fled down the street, zigzagging around the crashed vehicles to the sidewalk. He took in their surroundings in a frantic heartbeat, analyzing the options for flaws and strengths.

  The next block was still hundreds of yards east. The office and residential buildings looming on either side of them were twelve to fifteen stories tall and crowded in close like the walls of a giant maze herding them in a single direction.

  The only way was forward, toward Michigan Avenue and the shoreline. They’d have to take shelter in one of the storefronts lining the road and hope for the best.

  He had no clue which building would provide the best cover, didn’t know exactly where the monstrous plane would land or how. He was acutely aware that rather than leading them away from it, he could be leading them directly into the oncoming path of destruction instead.

  Giordano’s was on the right with its red awning on the first floor of a twelve-story masonry office building. A narrow alley lay just beyond it, but a trolley had crashed into the corner of the next building, completely blocking access.

  The cold air burned his throat with every ragged gasp. The smells of the street filled his nostrils—pizza and breadsticks, fresh donuts and coffee—all of it bizarre and disconcerting in the face of such destruction and chaos.

  He glimpsed David’s bright orange coat ducking into the glass-fronted restaurant. Too much shrapnel. Not enough brick and stone for protection.

  There. Just past the shiny glass restaurant façade—a tall building of reddish stone. Maybe a bank or office suites.

  It didn’t matter what it was. They were running out of options.

  Liam swerved sharply right, dragging Jessa with him. He jerked open the glass door with one hand, already pushing her through ahead of him.

  Off-balance and awkward, she stumbled and nearly fell. He still had her arm and hauled her up and forward.

  The inside looked like the lobby of an office building—fancy pillars and marble floors and huge potted plants. He spotted a heavy granite counter at the far end.

  A couple of office workers in tailored suits gaped at the windows beside a row of potted plants wound with Christmas lights. A handful of fleeing pedestrians had entered ahead of them and paused inside the entrance, unsure what to do next or where to go.

  One of the office workers took several hesitant steps back from the window, her hand over her throat, eyes wide and stunned.

  He pushed Jessa inside. “Get to the back!”

  Jessa ran as best she could, lumbering, breathing heavily, arms wind-milling like she could grasp the air and make herself go faster.

  “The plane’s about to crash!” someone shouted.

  He should’ve kept running. But some darkly fascinated part of him froze on the sidewalk, half-inside, the door half-open, his heart jackhammering against his ribcage.

  He looked back.

  The plane careened toward them, the nose tilted down. The wide white belly skimmed the roof of a fourteen-story building a few blocks behind them.

  Everything faded away, funneling into a single moment—the plane, huge and terrible and utterly silent, plunging like a hawk toward its prey.

  And then it hit.

  The left wing struck the side of the Sears Tower at several hundred miles per hour. The lightweight aluminum wing sheared completely off, snapping like a child’s toy.

  The plane twisted and wrenched as it plummeted. A horrible grinding, shrieking sound filled the air like a great dragon screaming overhead
.

  Several thousand pounds of screeching metal ripped into the buildings, metal crumbling and tearing. Huge chunks of aluminum and glass spewed into the air.

  The right wing tore from the fuselage. It spun end over end, mowing down a dozen fleeing people like ants before smashing into a glass store front.

  The body of the plane smashed between the narrow buildings and ploughed into the ground. A great red cloud like molten lava exploded several stories into the air.

  Fiery hunks of the plane hurtled in every direction like cannon balls, punching through glass storefronts, pelting the street, crushing cars, striking fleeing pedestrians and trapping them beneath chunks of smoldering metal.

  Pure, unadulterated terror pierced Liam straight through the heart.

  He spun and sprinted inside.

  He wouldn’t make it. The roaring cacophony of death was right on his heels.

  A horrendous, ear-splitting roar engulfed everything. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. Windows shattered. Massive chunks of shrapnel as large as cars pummeled the exterior walls, crumbling mortar and stone.

  He dove behind a marble pillar ten yards inside and flattened himself belly-first against the floor, hands over his head and face, fingers laced behind his neck.

  Nothing but dumb luck would save him now.

  5

  Liam rose unsteadily to his feet, stunned and dazed, his ears ringing.

  His back ached from the car accident and the jarring fall to the marble floor. A half-dozen cuts marred his hands and forearms. He plucked a thumb-sized shard of glass from his right thigh just above the knee.

  He didn’t even feel the sting. The injuries were all superficial. Most of the shrapnel had blasted past just above his prone form.

  He was alive. He was fine.

  People were speaking, yelling and shouting and crying, but he barely heard them. Everything sounded tinny and far away. Smoke drifted everywhere, clogging his throat. He pressed his arm over his face and mouth and coughed violently.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed—seconds or minutes or even longer.

  “Jessa!” he grunted. Then louder. “Jessa!”

  Several large pieces of debris had peeled off and rocketed through the lobby’s front windows with tremendous force. A huge hunk of engine fan blade had jettisoned into one of the corner offices, imploding the glass walls and demolishing the wooden desk.

  Two people had hidden behind it. One was crushed to death. The other leaned against the wall, cradling a broken arm, his face a mangled mess of broken bone and bloodied flesh.

  Several other survivors had sustained serious cuts, scrapes, and puncture wounds from flying glass and shredded bits of metal and plastic. He smelled blood and dust and things burning.

  Apprehension gripped him. He didn’t see his sister-in-law.

  “JESSA!”

  “I’m…here.”

  He maneuvered through the debris to the rear of the lobby in front of a bank of elevators. He crouched beside her prone form and quickly assessed her condition.

  She lay on the marble floor on her back, breathing heavily and holding her distended belly. Dust and a bit of blood smeared her face. Small cuts peppered her cheeks and neck.

  A bloodstain the size of his fist stained her coat over her right shoulder. More quarter-sized droplets spattered her right arm and torso.

  She was clearly injured, but he didn’t see anything fatal.

  “You were supposed to hide behind the granite counter!”

  “I fell. I couldn’t make it in time.”

  He shook his head. His anger was at himself. He’d stopped to look. She’d gone on alone. “Let’s go.”

  “I don’t hear sirens,” she said. “Where are the ambulances and firetrucks?”

  “They don’t work because of the EMP. First responders will come, but they’ll be on foot. It’ll take longer.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. “You said the hospital is two miles away. That’s where we need to go.”

  “Liam.”

  He looked down at her.

  She met his gaze, a resigned bleakness in her eyes that terrified him.

  “What is it?”

  She moved the right flap of her long coat aside. A twisted piece of metal the size of his hand jutted from her inner left thigh, halfway between her knee and crotch. Bright red blood swelled across her leg, pulsing with her heartbeat.

  Her huge coat had hidden the large puddle spreading beneath her. But he saw it now. He saw it all with a horrible clarity.

  His whole body went cold. Dread slicked his insides. He stared at her in alarm. “Jessa.”

  Jessa shifted her leg with a grimace. Fresh blood poured from the gash and splashed onto the floor. “It lacerated my femoral artery.”

  He cursed softly. “Don’t move.”

  He had hemostatic gauze and Celox granules for blood-clotting in his pack, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not the way the blood pulsed from the wound, gushing like a hose.

  “Okay.” She grimaced, teeth gritted, and nodded to herself as if coming to terms with the gravity of her situation. “Okay. Don’t remove the shrapnel yet. It’s likely burning hot and could be pressing against the artery, preventing further bleeding.”

  “You need a tourniquet.”

  “We have to get to the hospital within ninety minutes. Prolonged ischemia of the tissue at and below the tourniquet may lead to permanent muscle damage and necrosis.”

  “We will.” He removed his gloves, shucked the backpack from his shoulders, and unzipped it. He dug through his emergency supplies for the medical kit as quickly as he could, his fingers numb from shock and terror. He opened the red zippered pouch, removed a CAT tourniquet from his bag, and ripped open the packaging.

  She seized his arm with surprising strength. “Where’s Lincoln? Where’s my husband?”

  “He’s on his way,” Liam lied. It just about killed him to lie to her, but he saw no other choice. “He made it to the Dunkin’ Donuts. He’ll be here any minute.”

  She needed to focus on her own survival—and the baby’s. Worry would only make things worse. So would the truth.

  Liam shoved that thought down deep. He couldn’t think of Lincoln now. He couldn’t afford to lose his focus, not with Jessa depending on him.

  Moving swiftly, he placed the tourniquet three inches above the wound, pulled the initial strap through the buckle as tight as possible, and tightened, turning the windlass several times, increasing the pressure until finally the arterial blood flow slowed.

  “Now, the shrapnel,” Jessa said through clenched teeth. “Leaving it in will cause more damage every time I move.”

  He nodded stiffly. He knew what to do.

  He gathered the clotting gauze and a bandage wrap from his go-bag and made sure they were ready to use. He yanked off his scarf and wound it around his hand to shield his skin from the hot, razor-sharp metal.

  Jessa didn’t close her eyes or turn away as he pulled the shrapnel from her thigh. She sucked in a sharp, pained breath.

  He hated causing her pain, but there was nothing to be done except to move quickly and efficiently. Applying pressure as best he could, he checked the blood flow. It was still bleeding too much. He tightened the tourniquet, then packed the jagged wound with the gauze and wrapped her leg.

  “Where is he?” she said again when he’d finished. “Why isn’t he here?”

  He wasn’t any good at pep talks. He wiped his hands clean with a disinfectant wipe, carefully replaced the medical kit but kept it on top of the other supplies—she might need it again—and hoisted his backpack.

  He tugged on his gloves, rose to his feet, and held out his hand.

  She refused to take it. She pressed her lips together and frowned up at him. “Liam—”

  “He’ll meet us at the hospital,” he said with as much conviction as possible, like if they both believed it, it would be true. “We just need to get there.”

  She nodded, her chi
n jutting with that stubborn determination that had always driven Lincoln nuts, but had never bothered Liam. In the sandbox of Afghanistan, a stubborn refusal to quit had kept him alive more times than he could count. Hopefully it would keep her alive, too.

  She grasped his hand, and he hauled her up. She took an unsteady step. Her brown skin was ashen, her eyes too wide, her pupils huge.

  The floor beneath her was smeared and splattered with blood. Blood soaked her leg and her coat. Too much blood. It was everywhere. More blood outside of a human body than should be possible.

  He’d seen that much blood in warzones overseas. Too many times. And every time, they’d lost the gravely injured operator. Not Jessa. It wouldn’t happen to Jessa. He wouldn’t allow it.

  Fear clawed at his throat, choking off his breath. He pushed down the rising panic. He had to act, had to save her. No way was he letting her die. Not after Lincoln.

  He would get her to the hospital. No other choice.

  It was her only chance.

  6

  They stepped outside the office building into hell. Wisps of gray fog unfurled above the looming skyscrapers on either side, trapping them in an eerie apocalyptic nightmare.

  The bitter cold blasted Liam’s exposed face and neck. He nearly choked on the acrid fumes of thousands of gallons of burnt aviation gas. It burned his nostrils and seared his throat.

  The keening wails and moans of the wounded and dying shattered the cold stillness left in the void of no car engines, no honking horns, no dull rumble of construction.

  Death was everywhere. The horrific images seared his eyes, his brain.

  He forced himself to look west toward the Audi, toward where he’d left his twin behind.

  The street was unrecognizable. Where once was a road, cars, sidewalks, streetlights, and bustling pedestrians was now a blackened, scorched, and gaping maw. Deep gouges marred the buildings on either side of Jackson Blvd, like the stone, steel, and glass had been carved apart by a giant’s blade.