Abby hurried to keep up with the crowd bearing down on the White House. As she looked around, she felt a sudden jolt in her mind. The riotous chaos flung her back in time and across space, to Little America some four years ago. Then it was her and her friends who found themselves under attack in the dark night, who lost their homes to fire and their loved ones to bullets and zombies. Faces filled Abby’s vision. Angry voices shouted her name, laying blame on her shoulders for letting Henry live to wreak havoc upon them.
“No,” Abby thought, shaking her head. “I chose to show Henry mercy. He chose to be wicked. I am responsible for my choices, not his.”
Her road to recovery would be a long one, Abby thought. But the key was winning the small battles like this. A year ago such a flashback would have struck her like a cattle prod. But tonight she was able to swat the demons aside. Besides, she had a job to do.
Finally, the mob reached their goal. Stark against a backdrop of an evening sky and rising plumes of smoke stood the capital building, the new White House.
From the rooftop to the porch, and in all the windows, the building was littered with armed DAS agents. Across the lawn, two entire companies of agents were dressed in riot gear, and a pair of M1A1 Abrams tanks painted black flanked the front stairs, their cannons and machine guns defying all challengers. Three Cobra gunships hovered above the grounds, loaded with Hydra rocket pods and 7.62mm miniguns. It was a terrifying display of power, and the rioting mob screeched to a halt just in front of the clean, spotless lawn surrounding the building, as if they’d hit an invisible wall.
Here again spirits faltered as the specter of death loomed large before them. Even with the guns given them by the ReFounding Fathers and the soldiers reinforcing them, the mob stood no chance in an open, pitched battle against this kind of firepower. The Hydra rocket pods on the gunships would be enough to wipe out dozens of people, and that’s not even counting the miniguns, tanks, and the countless DAS agents on foot.
For a long time, no one on either side moved. Even the shouting had died down, and the only sounds keeping silence at bay came from the engines of the tanks, the rotors of the helicopters, and the flickering flames of the torches. No one wanted to fire the first shot in what would surely be a massacre.
Abby was unsure what to do. She adjusted the bag on her shoulders, getting ready to unsling it at a moment’s notice to treat casualties. But her concentration was broken by a familiar voice.
Over the din of the engines of war, the deep and proud voice of Heammawihio carried in the evening air. “You men,” he called to the DAS agents, “lay down your arms and surrender. Our business is with President Arthur tonight, not you. I am Heammawihio, a Chief of the Cheyenne peoples, leader of the ReFounding Fathers, and I promise you that no harm will come to whoever stands aside.”
Across the lawn, Heammawihio’s plea was met with derisive laughter and mockery. But the jeering was cut off as the front doors to the White House were flung open, and a small group of yet more DAS agents strode out and down the stairs, led by none other than Derrick.
Abby saw him immediately, and she stepped behind a taller person before Derrick could spot her. She didn’t know if he would notice her, but she didn’t want to run that chance. She didn’t want to fight him.
“This is your last chance!” Derrick yelled. “The terrorists have tricked you, and for that you will be forgiven. But you, whatever your name is, and your followers, you will not be so lucky. Now disperse!”
***
Downing another glass of whiskey, Cyrus stared out of his office window and watched his son attempt to dispel the crowd before any shots were fired. Foolish boy. He didn’t have the guts to be a leader, to make tough decisions. He turned to the officer that stood at the other end of the office, standing against the wall.
“Colonel,” the president said, his words slightly slurred, “give the order. Kill ‘em all.”
“Sir, if I may –“ the colonel said.
“You may not!” Cyrus yelled, and he hurled the whiskey glass at the officer, narrowly missing. “Kill them!”
The colonel looked indignant at having a heavy glass thrown at him, but he obeyed. He pulled a radio from his belt and keyed it in. “Morningstar 1, this is Shield 6,” he said, “you are clear to engage.”
Cyrus smiled. Grabbing the whiskey bottle and pouring another drink in a new glass, he turned back to the window. He wanted to see this.
***
Abby looked up at the helicopters and gasped. The two on the flanks had separated from the center one a bit and turned outboard. They were preparing to fire.
There followed a tremendous roar as laser-guided, precision missiles streaked through the night air, closing in on their targets. And then…
…the missiles struck.
Two of the helicopters burst into a fiery blaze and crashed to the ground while the other helicopter flew off.
The uproar turned to confusion as all eyes turned to the west, the direction from which the missiles had come. A trio of F/A-18 fighter jets zoomed overhead. Before anyone could wonder whose jets those were or why they had attacked the helicopters, a pair of A-10 Thunderbolts burst from the night clouds and descended upon the White House like twin dragons. Their massive chain guns spiraled up and unleashed a hellacious, deafening assault on the two tanks in front of the White House. Huge, 30mm tungsten-core bullets shredded the tanks like soft cheese at a rate of nearly 4,000 rounds per minute.
Just like that, the odds were evened, and the mob realized their chance.
With a cacophony of shouts and war cries, the rebel crowds charged the White House lawn while DAS agents struggled to regain composure. Marksmen in the windows and on top of the building opened fire, but insurgents from the ReFounding Fathers, who stayed near the back of the crowd to avoid friendly fire, shot back and kept them at bay as best they could.
With the riflemen on both sides exchanging gunfire, the fighting on the ground devolved into a giant, messy brawl. DAS agents with shields and nightsticks smashed into rioters with baseball bats and lead pipes. The smoke from the burning wreckage of helicopters and tanks mingled with the haze of gunfire and dropped torches, wreathing the battleground in a dark fog.
Abby roamed around and looked for casualties, dodging gunfire and baton swings all the while. A couple DAS agents tried to attack her, but she disarmed one and blew out his knee with his own club, and the other she tripped and threw into a crowd of rioters to handle. The first wounded man she happened upon was a DAS agent whose face had been burned by a Molotov cocktail. She wrapped a burn dressing around his face and checked him for other wounds before moving on again. A moment later she found a young man shot through the shoulder, writhing and screaming in pain.
“Hey, calm down! You’re gonna be okay!” she said to the man, trying to soothe him as she stuffed gauze into the exit wound. But he continued to holler.
“I’ve been shot, they shot me!” he yelled.
“You’re gonna be fine, it’s just a little gunshot!” Abby assured him.
“Oh God, I’ve been shot! Oh my God! Oh Jesus!”
“Okay, just shut up!” Abby yelled. She was almost done wrapping a dressing over the wound, which was about as minor as a gunshot wound could be, and her frayed nerves had had it with the man’s whining. “You’ve been shot! I’ve been shot! A lot of people have been shot! Just shut up and stay safe!”
Abby left the man there and continued looking for casualties. She swept her gaze to the left, and saw an older man there in plain clothes surrounded by four DAS agents. She made a move to go help him, but in an instant the man had dispatched all four agents by himself, his legs and arms thrusting out in kicks and punches as quick as snake bites.
“Bob?” Abby called, for Bob it was. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Bob looked up, saw Abby, and smiled. “I am finally using my voice!” he replied. Another DAS agent rushed him just then, but Bob laid him out with a single, strong punch to the thro
at. “And my fists!” Bob added.
Abby laughed and shook her head, then both she and Bob returned to their own business. Abby took a few steps towards the White House and heard suddenly a piercing scream. A nearby agent had been shot and fell to the ground as bright red blood spurted out of his right arm. Abby sprinted forward, knowing the man had just seconds to live if she didn’t stop the bleeding. She dropped to the ground in front of the man and grabbed his arm.
“Hold still!” she called, and she moved to drive her knee down into his bicep to slow the flow of blood while she readied a tourniquet. But the man was already slipping into shock, and he tried to fight Abby.
“Get off! Get off me!” he yelled.
“Stop it, you idiot! I’m trying to save you!”
“Get off me, get off me!”
“Let me save you!”
“I told you to leave town, Abby.”
Abby looked up. Derrick was there standing over her, watching her with those icy blue eyes. His face was slick with sweat and he sported a dark bruise on his left cheek.
“I’m a little busy,” she replied. The man was no longer fighting her, but that was because he’d lost a lot of blood and was going limp. Abby finally got a tourniquet out of her bag and prepared to wrap it around the man’s arm.
“He’s dead, you’re too late,” Derrick insisted.
“No, he’s not! Not yet!”
Abby got the tourniquet around the man’s arm and slid it up to his bicep, as close to his shoulder as she could get. She pulled the strap tight and began to twist the little, black metal bar that would lock it in place to stop the bleeding. But it was indeed too late. The man had lost too much blood, and by trying to fight her off had only sealed his fate.
“Now get up and fight me,” Derrick said.
“God, Derrick!” Abby yelled. “You wanna do this now? Really?”
Derrick pulled off his plate carrier and dropped it on the ground. That seemed to answer her question.
Abby shook her head and got up on her feet, preparing to square off with Derrick. She unzipped her thin, bloodstained jacket and tossed it aside. She’d tried to avoid a fight, but now that it seemed inevitable she wanted to take the offensive, just as she’d done the first time she ever sparred with Derrick.
With a speed that made her movements almost imperceptible, Abby lunged at Derrick and threw a kick at him, driving her foot into his gut. Caught off guard, he was sent reeling back, but Abby didn’t give him room to breathe. She followed up with a straight left and a right hook, then ducked under a counter-punch, moving to Derrick’s right, and hitting him with another straight left.
Derrick finally landed a blow, hitting Abby with a spinning hammerfist. He tried to keep the momentum going with another strike but Abby dodged and hit Derrick with an inside leg kick, trying to shock his femoral artery.
He grunted, but stayed standing. He came at Abby again, throwing more punches but finding nothing but air. Abby countered with more strikes, but these Derrick managed to deflect or dodge.
Then Derrick drilled Abby with a straight punch to her gut that she never saw coming. She doubled-over, and Derrick swept her legs out from under her, throwing her to the ground.
Derrick dropped down to mount her but Abby scooped up a handful of dirt and grass and flung it up into his eyes, forcing him back off balance. Abby kicked up at him from the ground and he stumbled backwards. But rather than falling flat on his back, Derrick had transitioned into a backwards roll, bringing him back to his feet just as Abby regained her own footing.
With a bit of distance between them, Abby and Derrick took a second to catch their breaths. “You lied to me,” Derrick said between shuddering breaths.
“Yes,” Abby admitted.
“And you’re a terrorist.”
“Not exactly.”
“Your friends killed my mom.”
“I wasn’t with them when that happened.”
“But you are now.”
Abby had nothing to say to that, so the fight resumed. They exchanged a few more blows, deflecting and dodging more often than not. Evenly matched as fighters, they locked together. Abby felt drained, and she was tired of this fight. Wounded people needed her help. With that thought, Abby threw her knee up in an attempted groin strike on Derrick, but he saw it coming and leapt back at the last second.
Derrick threw a haymaker as he jumped back, barely making contact with Abby’s face and again sending her to the ground. He tried to mount her again, but Abby managed to get her legs open just in time so that she had Derrick in her guard.
But Derrick made the best of his position. He dropped a heavy elbow down on Abby’s head, and then another. As Abby brought her arms up to defend herself, he slammed both elbows into the inside of Abby’s thighs, trying to break her guard. After a second blow to both thighs, Abby relaxed her guard, but only for a second.
Instead of letting her legs roll limp to the sides and allowing Derrick to escape, she kicked her legs up, wrapping them around Derrick’s head and neck, locking him in a triangle choke. Abby grabbed her foot with one hand and gripped one of Derrick’s arms with the other.
Derrick’s vision was already blurring. He had to act fast before he blacked out. He threw a hard punch at Abby, but she arched her back, keeping her face just out of range.
In desperation, Derrick yanked his arm free from Abby’s grip and slipped both arms under her, beneath her back. He pressed himself up, bringing a surprised Abby up into the air as she kept her legs locked around his throat, trying to subdue him. Just another second...
And just before he blacked out, Derrick slammed Abby to the ground, knocking the wind out of her as she finally released him from her choke.
Abby lay on her back, moaning as she tried to catch her breath again. Derrick rolled onto his own back next to Abby, just barely conscious.
“I hate you,” he whispered.
“I know,” was Abby’s gasped reply.
Chapter Forty-Three
“Sir? Shouldn’t we get you out of here?” the colonel asked Cyrus.
“Why?” Cyrus replied as he lounged in his desk chair. He brought the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and tipped it up. Nothing. It was empty.
“Well… ” the colonel began to say, but he was lost for words. He peaked out the window and saw that very few DAS agents still stood. The sudden loss of their gunships and armor had been a shock and the rebels took cruel advantage of it. Outnumbered and dismayed, the DAS fought a valiant fight but it wasn’t enough. The mob had forced their way into the White House, and already the colonel could hear some of the men inside the building surrender.
“No, it’s over,” Cyrus said. He leaned forward, opened a drawer in his desk, and retrieved a cigar and a small torch. He jammed the cigar into his mouth, lit it, and said, “It was General Sloan, wasn’t it? He sent those jets?”
The colonel nodded his head and said, “That’s what we’re hearing. He’s got his whole division moving up here.”
Cyrus threw his head back and gave a loud, drunken laugh.
“That motherfucker,” he chuckled, chewing on the cigar. “Never liked him, Colonel. Never liked him.” Cyrus brought the bottle back up to his lips, forgetting it was empty. “Well, shit,” he muttered as he let slip the bottle from his fingers.
“Why don’t you go surrender with the rest of those pussies,” Cyrus said to the officer as he sat forward and drew his handgun. “Get out of here.”
The officer hesitated. He wasn’t totally sure that this wasn’t some kind of psychotic test of loyalty, and he feared the president would kill him if he turned his back.
“Colonel, if you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m gonna shoot you in your fuckin’ head,” Cyrus slurred as he dusted his handgun with a cloth.
“Yes, sir,” the colonel replied and he made for the door.
“Colonel,” Cyrus said, stopping him in his tracks. “Tell my son something,” he said.
“Yes sir?”
“Tell him… this is all his fuckin’ fault.”
The colonel had heard the president say some shocking things before, but leaving a spiteful last message for his only son was a new low, and he hated him for it. He wasn’t certain if the president meant to go down shooting or if he was going to end it all himself, but either way it was clear that the president had not much longer to live. And so the colonel made a snap decision.
“That’s a terrible thing to say to your son, sir,” the colonel said.
“Come again?” Cyrus asked.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The colonel drew his sidearm and fired a single shot at the president.
The 9mm round ripped through the air at over one thousand feet per second, obliterating Cyrus’ right eye as it entered his head, bounced around his skull a couple times, then exited out of the crown of his head, blowing blood, grey matter, and chunks of skull onto the American flag behind his desk.
Cyrus’ head snapped back from the force of the impact, the cigar flew from his mouth and his pistol dropped from his hands. His head whipped back forward and his body crumpled onto the top of his desk.
The colonel holstered his sidearm and left.
***
The battle was drawing to a close just as Abby and Derrick lay next to each other in exhaustion. Almost in unison they both picked themselves up to a sitting position without a word and looked around. DAS agents were throwing down weapons and surrendering within and without the White House as rebels broke through the front door and began to collect prisoners. A group of four finally noticed Derrick and approached him.
“Come on, you,” they said, jerking Derrick up to his feet. He didn’t bother resisting as they took his sidearm and guided him across the field to where the other prisoners were being sat and guarded. He did not turn to look at Abby once or say another word to her.
Abby remained sitting for several seconds as she surveyed the destruction around her. She had tried her best to save as many as she could, but it looked like dozens had died and dozens more were wounded. The mystery jets had made another flyby but with no clear targets they did not engage. Abby made a note to herself to ask Heammawihio about those jets. She assumed they’d been sent by General Sloan. Heammawihio must have sent him a messenger, telling him what the president had done, and that was enough for Sloan to revolt.
His Name Was Zach (Book 2): Her Name Was Abby Page 45
