Fall, Rise, Repeat

by Matthew Schneider

He surveyed his surroundings, his eyes moving up and down as they scanned the scene. It was almost hard to believe the sheer number of men who stepped forward and died to play the game of the elites.

  Jimenez moved his tongue across his top lip and squinted. A shadow crawled across the front of the red brick placed on the ground. His heart skipped a beat as two Russian soldiers walked side by side in front of the tower, toting the same guns sitting in the car trunk.

  “Nothing to fear! Russians are not here to hurt us,” he whispered to himself, doubting his own words.

  In the long run, they may do little to hurt anybody, because there would be no way to organize a country under a tyrannical rule, but it would take just that to control the situation. Jimenez squatted next to the closest dead body, feeling around at the waist for a knife. Hidden on the left side in a sheath was a carbon fiber ballistic knife.

  He pushed the safety on the pistol and put it back in its holster at his side and grabbed the ballistic knife. He crouched and stealthily ran close to the building, gripping the knife fiercely.

  He followed the two soldiers, toes then heel, not daring to give away his position. He truly had no idea whether or not the soldiers would be friendly, but it was not a risk he was willing to take. Not to mention, he had walked out of the building in front of the soldiers, so he would undoubtedly be recognized.

  The soldier on the right stopped walking and stood still, holding his left hand up to his ear. The other soldier continued walking around the building and disappeared from sight.

  There was only one option, and the opportunity had been granted.

  Jimenez held the knife high and lunged at the soldier, pushing his right arm around to the man’s chest and pressing the knife through the combat gear, then shoved his body against the soldier and pulled at the knife, lodging it between two ribs.

  The Russian turned his head and mouthed an incoherent phrase, partially because of the blood he was spitting out and partially because Jimenez didn’t understand Russian.

  The agent pulled out the knife and stood over the soldier, blood smeared on his coat sleeve and dripping from the tip of the knife. His head looked down at the mess he had made, and his jaw clenched.

  Jimenez stepped around the body and continued his journey, looking for the second soldier. He peeked his head around the corner of the building, and his nose pressed against the face of another man.

  He jumped back, holding the knife up, his finger on the switch.

  “Стоп!” yelled the soldier, raising his rifle at Jimenez.

  Jimenez ducked and rolled to the side, jumping at the gun and slamming the soldier’s knuckles against the building. The soldier let go of the gun but immediately swung at Jimenez. He evaded the punch by ducking quickly and twisting out of the way, finishing with pressing down on the ballistic switch, sending the knife flying into the soldier’s neck.

  The Russian pulled the knife out, gurgling blood as he fell against the building. His hand dragged against the dark glass, leaving a defined, then smeared, bloody handprint. Jimenez stepped back and sprinted towards the car.

  He leaped at the door and threw himself into the car as a group of Russian soldiers rushed out of the building, looking around, then running towards the car.

  Jimenez put the car in reverse and swung around the front end as a bullet pierced through the rear windshield, burying itself in the passenger headrest. He slammed his foot down on the pedal as he shifted into drive, the car accelerating with force. He watched the open road, then confidently turned his head back to see the Russians driving at him in one of the Americans’ trucks.

  His heart raced in synchronization with the truck, which was catching up to him surprisingly fast. He turned left, the car skidding over the air. The low-flying cars were not meant for high speeds or sharp turns, but they could handle them nonetheless.

  Jimenez swung open his door as he dodged traffic, and fired his pistol behind him, checking his mirror to see the shots hit the bumper of the truck. The car squeezed between two vehicles and turned right at the intersection, and his eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

  The truck dominated the cars at the intersection, throwing them like toys and hitting pedestrians like roadkill. Jimenez closed his door and pressed his foot down further, driving through the tight roads like a madman. He hit the brakes and spun the steering wheel to the right, the car sliding across the intersection and crashing through the glass of a corner coffee shop. Tables flew back and the car smashed against the back counter.

  Jimenez’s head whipped as he watched the truck go through the intersection and turn at the last minute, grinding against the buildings on the right side of the road. Jimenez drove forward into the counter, smashing through the glass display, then the front door. He accelerated down the road, taking a wide detour back to the hotel.

  He passed the several cars outside the hotel and drove up to the doors. He ran to the trunk and swung all four guns over his shoulder, the combat vests in one arm, and the helmets against his chest. He sprinted to the front rotary doors and pushed his way in, ignoring the people inside.

  He went to the check-in counter and panted out, “Did four men stop in?”

  The man at the counter stared at the guns on Jimenez’s back and nodded his head. The clerk looked behind Jimenez, and he turned around. A security guard with his weapon drawn approached him.

  “Due to the situation, this building is a safe zone. People can come here for guaranteed protection during the crisis and your guns could pose a threat. I’m going to—”

  Jimenez stepped forward and head butted the guard in the nose. “Read the nametag, dumbass. United States government. Step back and let us do our work.”

  The guard grabbed his nose and stepped away from Jimenez. Jimenez turned back to the counter and repeated his question. “Four men. Did you see them?”

  “Yes...take the elevator to the 20th floor...they demanded a luxury suite. The two rooms are yours,” the clerk mumbled.

  Jimenez carried his items to the elevator and waited patiently for it to arrive. It chimed, and he walked in, noticing the lobby was watching him. He pressed for the twentieth floor and the doors closed.

  Smooth jazz played on the ride up. He tapped his foot to the rhythm of the relaxing music. There was a ding and the doors opened, opening to a hallway. He stepped out and caught Zav’s attention

  “Xavier! Good to see you. Lead me to your room,” Jimenez asked, panting under the weight of the gear. “Please.”

  Zav motioned with his hand and led Jimenez to two open doors. “The rooms are next to each other, but we don’t have access to the other from the inside. It’s a treat! Feels like I’m living a rich life.”

  Jimenez stepped into the first room. It was pentagon-shaped, and the fifth wall made it very spacious. The navy blue walls and white ceiling contrasted the dark gray carpet, so soft and thick it melted under their shoes.

  There were beds in one portion of the room, walled off to look separated. In the main area, there was an assortment of furniture made from vicuña fabrics, silk, and beautiful brown leather. The color of the room itself was cool, but the furniture was inviting with its warmer neutral colors.

  There were decorative lamps emitting a soft white light, but the massive window at the end of the room gave the most light. Two glass tables bounced the light, and a massive old-style television stretched an entire wall, built in like a window itself. Its resolution was crystal clear and beyond lifelike and displayed a scenic view of what appeared to be either Chicago or a sister city at night.

  Jimenez walked towards the fireplace built into the tiny fifth wall and dropped everything he was carrying in a heap on the ground, except for the guns, which he spread out across the glass coffee table.

  “Welcome home,” chuckled Jimenez as he laid down on the majestic soft couch and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 11

  “Agent Jimenez, wake up,” whispered Zav, crouching next to the couch. He gave Jimenez’s
shoulder a soft nudge.

  Jimenez grunted and rolled onto his side. “Meh!” His eyes slowly opened, his pupils dilating to adjust to the poorly lit room. “What is it?”

  “I think you should see it for yourself. Outside this window,” Zav said, his nose squished against the glass.

  “I don’t feel like getting up, just tell me what you see or I’ll lose interest,” Jimenez groaned burying his face into the couch.

  Zav rolled his eyes and walked to the fireplace, standing in the middle of the gear pile. “The building is surrounded by Russians. The sun is setting, so it’s not easy to see them, but it’s very obvious that the road is filled with their vehicles.”

  Jimenez turned his head to Zav and cracked his neck. “How long have they been there?”

  Zav bit his lip and put his hands on his hips. “They weren’t there when I closed the drapes a couple of hours ago, but I wouldn’t say they just arrived. They’re probably in the building.”

  “Then we are not safe!” Jimenez said loudly, startling Zav. He placed both feet on the ground and stretched his legs.

  Zav squinted and put his hands in the air. “What do you mean we’re not safe? You said the Russians weren’t going to cause any problems!”

  “I thought! They’re angry. They’re armed. I don’t think things worked out the way they were supposed to; make a bargain, annex America, create a world superpower. But there’s resistance and they do not like that.”

  “Anyone would’ve guessed that Americans would fight back...are you telling me they didn’t see that? Or were they just not friendly in the first place and you were pretending to understand what’s going on?” Zav yelled, pointing his index finger in the face of Jimenez.

  “It’s a war! What do you expect? Of course they’re not going to be friendly! But I didn’t realize the American army was going to put up such a resistance.”

  “Put up a resistance? You don’t make any fucking sense. America makes a deal with Russia, offering to be annexed. Then America strikes Russia and vice versa. Russian president meets with American president to see if they can come to a deal, but a blue flare says they reached no conclusion—”

  “And that’s where I don’t know what’s happening anymore. The red flare was supposed to have both armies stand down and retreat, and blue would order the Russians to fall back and rally. Except they pushed! The Americans were not expecting it.”

  “So they ‘fall back and rally’. That must mean the Americans were expecting another attack eventually.”

  “Yes, eventually. But that was immediate, giving the Russians an immediate advantage. And since things were not solved diplomatically, only a war will offer a conclusion to this mess. So we can sit by and wait for the Russians to implement their laws or fight.”

  “But if nobody has fought yet, then why did you say we are not safe?”

  “I fought! And after the chaos the Russians provoked in our anarchical society, people will already be fighting back. But that’s just hypothetical. Have your men suit up and we will head down to the lobby. Only then will we know if the Russians are friend or foe.”

  Zav turned away from Jimenez and scrunched his face out of confusion and anger. He closed his eyes and stepped over the closest combat vest, then bent down and push his arms through the ill-fitting holes. He took the Russian helmet and strapped it around his chin. He looked at Jimenez, who had his back to Zav.

  Zav grabbed the AK-15 and pushed his head through the gun strap and adjusted it against his body. “I’ll inform the others.”

  Zav walked past Jimenez and pushed through the luxurious door, bursting into the hallway. He paced to his left and knocked on the door.

  There was a shuffle behind the door, followed by the clink of the metal lock becoming undone, and the swoosh of the heavy door opening.

  “Vat?” Marx asked, eyeing Zav’s outfit.

  “Assemble the men and come into my room. Grab your gear and equip yourself with a gun. We will disperse to the lobby in five minutes,” Zav ordered, and walked to the elevator. Jimenez shuffled out of his room, zipping his fly and squirming past Christopher.

  Jimenez came close and put his mouth near Zav’s ear. “I don’t know what your group of misfits have gone through, but I think it’ll take a little bit more than a fat guy and some middle-aged men to fight back the Russian army.”

  Zav cringed at the warmth of Jimenez’s breath on his ear and stepped away. He locked eyes and said, “I’m well aware of that. I don’t think two of them would fire a gun if their lives depended on it, but nobody knows that. So we march down there and our authority is already asserted by numbers.”

  Jimenez raised a bushy eyebrow and turned his head to the shuffle of footsteps, where Marx, Ethan, and Christopher stood, dressed in their military gear and armed with guns.

  “Consider us a militia. We should probably modify the uniforms so we don’t blend with the Russians, but these will do for now. Let’s go,” barked Jimenez, pressing the gold arrow on the elevator.

  The doors opened smoothly, and the five of them marched into the elevator. Zav flexed his fingers around the grip of his gun and exhaled as the doors closed shut.

  “Okay men, allow me to explain the plan. Our numbers are small and some of us may be inexperienced with a gun, or combat in general. But we’re going to show up and act like we know what we’re doing. We don’t know what the Russians are doing, but we know they will always be our enemy.

  “Do not point your gun at any civilians. We are not going to use force or fear to rally them. Instead, we will make the Russians a common enemy—”

  “McConnell. The Communists. The Jews. Are we repeating history?” asked Ethan.

  “I only know two of those groups, but there’s something you’re missing...we are the good guys here. You have to remember that every action we take is for the right cause, even if the means to achieve it are bad.”

  Zav bit his lip and faced Jimenez. They were side by side, with Ethan and Christopher in the front, and Marx in the middle, in a star formation. “I guess we have a lot in common. I have to be honest, just a week ago I would never have been able to see myself doing this, but now it’s only necessary.”

  “Enough talk, but great to hear Xavier.” Jimenez looked around the elevator and focused his eyes on a black box in one corner. “Shit! There’s a camera, they could only be expecting us. This is spacious, get to the side. We can expect gunfire when these doors open.”

  “What? You said they wouldn’t attack!” Ethan yelled, pushing his body against the wall, out of the view of the doorway.

  “They might be listening to our every word. If they don’t already know what our plan is, then we may be safe...but let’s not take a risk,” replied Jimenez.

  Christopher put his hands on his hips. “Guys, don’t you think we should attempt the diplomatic approach?” The elevator halted and the doors crept open as Christopher took a step forward. “I’m going to offer peace.”

  He faced the open doors and raised his right hand as if he were waving but without the motion.

  They heard the noise first, the whistle of a bullet, the powerful explosion out of the barrel of a rifle in the lobby, and the sound of bone splitting.

  Christopher dropped to his knees, his head wobbling, then tilting back and dragging down his body. The hole in his head was easily visible before it pooled with blood and soaked the carpet of the elevator.

  The other four kept their bodies pressed against the wall. Either Christopher was shot because he had a gun, or because the Russians already knew they were coming. But if not...then the other four would have one thing less to worry about.

  Ethan clenched his jaw as his cheeks puffed up, watching the bleeding body of Christopher on the ground. Zav clicked his tongue and made eye contact with Ethan, mouthing “Don’t do it!”

  Ethan bent over and vomited across Christopher’s legs, and fell to his hands and knees, spitting out his last meal. He coughed, wiping puke from his mouth, and t
urned his head to the lobby.

  His teary eyes blinked and focused, watching the lobby. There were civilians on their knees and hands behind their heads scattered around the room, accompanied by armed Russians soldiers.

  Ethan drooped his head and called out, “a dozen Russian soldiers! Civilians on the floor. Fuck me,” he whispered, spit dripping from his bottom lip.

  Zav’s stomach flipped and he squinted, grimacing at the sight. A second later, a bullet penetrated Ethan’s skull and embedded itself into the back wall of the elevator. Ethan’s body flew over Christopher’s corpse, his exploded head next to Marx’s right foot.

  Jimenez locked eyes with Marx and darted them towards the buttons, signalling Marx. Marx took a deep breath in and shimmied towards the buttons, and inched his hand to the close-door button. His thumb pressed it lightly, and the doors jumped, then closed.

  There was a chime as the doors hit Christopher’s foot, then opened back up. Marx looked to Jimenez for an answer.

  Jimenez looked down at the pistol and moved his lips to the side of his mouth and whispered as clearly as he could through the awkward positioning, “I hope...you’re ready to die for your country, kid. Follow my lead.”

  Zav looked at Marx, then wiggled his gun. Marx pushed the safety off using his left hand and nodded his head.

  Jimenez took a deep breath, then cocked his pistol and dolphin dived out of the elevator, firing shots into the lobby. Zav swung his gun up and paced out of the elevator, firing at the standing Russians.

  Marx ran out and dove behind cover, peeking over and firing at whomever he could see.

  The Russians were taken by surprise but were not stupid. They fired, but only a second too late. The three men had assumed positions and kept firing, the uncovered standing Russians making easy targets.

  Zav threw over a decorative metal table and crouched behind it, kneeling to shoot back after every burst of Russian gunfire. There were already three or four Russians on the ground when the others abandoned their posts and ran towards the exit.

  Jimenez threw his empty magazine overhead and pulled another out of his pocket, loading his pistol and firing at the two strafing soldiers nearest to him. One fell to the ground clutching its chest, the other firing at Jimenez before he could duck. A bullet ricocheted off the metal-plated wall next to him and hit the side of his head, causing the vision in his right eye to fade. He tumbled to the floor, clutching his face.