He grimaced in pain, immediately putting a hand to his wounds, the blood seeping into his sleeve and around his bracelet. It was not the first time his talisman had soaked in his blood.
“Chip?!!” He said again, more anxiously.
Chip kept his rifle propped over Hog’s back, adjusting the focus slightly, shifting his aim by millimeters.
“Don’t breathe…” He whispered. Hog, lay flat obediently, holding her breath as best as she could. “Be cool, Cap, I’m on it.” He said, breathing out easily as he nudged his rifle skywards.
The sniper had missed twice now, and the ferocity with which he reloaded bore witness to the anger he felt. If it hadn’t been for that damn motorcycle, he’d have another two, maybe three marks on the wall in front of him. Instead, he had two empty casings and nothing to show for them. And he had no interest in leaving his perch to scrounge for munitions.
He sighted in on the figure cowering in the shattered glass of the bus stop with a vengeance. There would be no third miss. He would make absolutely certain this time. The fragments still left on the shelter’s frame would be no obstacle; they wouldn’t even slow the bullet before it sliced through the man’s brain and turned out the lights. Not even a little.
Chip winced as his fingers, still rope burned from his near-fall in the elevator shaft, curled around his trigger. The sudden, unexpected pain shifted his meticulous aim. Not much, but enough to where Hog felt the rifle wobble on her back. She glanced up at the sniper, eyes wide and worried.
Chip blinked once, furious with himself, resetting the mechanism and forcing himself to focus. He ignored Hog’s gaze, sighted in again, and found the sniper almost immediately. He fired immediately this time, pulling the trigger smoothly and without delay.
“Gotcha.” He sighed with relief and stood immediately, heading across the street and up the road. “We’re good to go, Cap.”
Tyco wasn’t so sure. Still crouched behind his cover, he peered cautiously around the shelter’s frame.
“You sure?”
Chip continued his confident walk across the wide open street, not dignifying Tyco’s doubt with an answer.
“Alright then.” Tyco nodded, and tapped in. “Ghost - ?”
Ghost stepped into the boulevard, pushing Shelley in front of him.
“All good, Cap.” He said, nonchalantly, but the terror in Shelley’s wide eyes spoke volumes about the destruction that lay behind them.
Hog stood and dusted herself off, joining Tyco in the middle of the road.
“I can’t believe he saved your life.” Tyco said, quietly.
“Yours too.” She shrugged, shaking her head at the sniper’s back. “I don’t see you thanking him.”
Tyco smiled and turned to follow Chip. The rail station was just a little farther ahead, five long city streets away in the center of another large square, its concrete arches visible from where they stood. Tyco moved towards it quickly, leaving the square and its telltale dead as quickly as possible, wary of the patrols that would inevitably find them and follow. Maybe, just maybe, their luck had held after all.
From high on its perch, the corpse of the sniper watched the group leave his streets, his domain, slumped over the rifle that had ruled his city. Its finger was still wrapped around the trigger, frozen in mid-squeeze. He had been right. He had not missed again.
THIRTEEN: ONWARDS AND UPWARDS
The station was lightly guarded. At some point early in the uprising, the authorities had tried to close it, bolting its long metal security gates in place. It had been a poor effort, half-hearted and desperate. The gates hadn’t lasted long. The fighting had swept them aside, leaving them crumpled and broken. Even from the edge of the square, it was clear the station had been gutted, stripped of anything useful or valuable. What remained now were the dregs, passed over by the looters and the army, not even useful as scrap metal. Even the turnstiles had been raided, leaving nothing but jagged, rusting stumps where they had stood. Wiring, half-stripped from the walls, swayed in the breeze.
The platform was visible through worn holes in the structure, trains sitting silent on the second-floor tracks. The authorities had abandoned them here, leaving them to their fates. Without a working power grid, they were useless, too heavy and cumbersome to move. Not that the looters hadn’t worked them over, too; the metal siding that still covered them bore the scars of repeated, failed attempts to strip them bare.
The depot, now, had lost all strategic significance. The two guards stationed by the entrance looked bored, lazily sitting in what remained of the ticket booth, smoking. They seemed oblivious to the world outside, or at least disinterested. Had they been more attentive, the earlier skirmish might have roused them from their stupor, but there was no indication they were even remotely aware of the disturbance in the street below.
They were young, too, very young, the stubble on their faces barely worth consideration as beards. Even from a distance, they seemed fresh-faced and innocent. One of them, despite his youth, bore the fresh scar of the rebel brand on his neck. His shoulders were wider than the other sentry’s, his neck larger and thicker as well. They seemed green and unpredictable, unlikely to put up much resistance, but this far into the city, Tyco was loathe to engage – and call attention to their position – if he didn’t have to. He turned and nodded towards Hog and Ghost.
“Check the sides.” He ordered quietly. “Find me another way in.”
They broke away quickly, scampering in opposite directions around the square. Tyco turned back to the guards, watching them through his scope, making sure his troopers remained unseen. The larger soldier stood facing away from him, stretching and flexing, his enhanced muscles prominently on display.
“Question, doc.” Tyco said, nodding towards the young man. “That mark, the one on his neck. That mark was on the building we found you in. And on the security database. ” He turned towards the doctor with calm assurance, preparing to ask the question that had been on his mind since the man had appeared in the laboratory below the city. “I’ve never seen it before, not anywhere but here. What’s the connection? Why do all the rebels have it?”
Shelley looked at him warily, then turned away, staring at the young guard in the station. “I honestly wouldn’t know.” He said quietly.
The tone of the Doctor’s voice was hardly convincing, and Tyco wasn’t about to let it go that quickly. “Doctor.” He said simply, the strangled laugh in his throat helping to convey the derision he felt. “Please.”
Shelley glared. “I told you.” He said. “I don’t know. Implants were not my department.”
“Not your department…” Tyco muttered, looking up just as Hog came sneaking back from her scout. “What’s the story?” he asked, his tone shifting quickly towards the confident and practical.
“Negative.” She said, nodding towards the front entrance of the station. “That’s our best option.“
“Same here.” Ghost chimed in, appearing without warning behind them.
“Alright.” Tyco said, nodding to Chip. “Make it painless.” He ordered.
Chip nodded and sank to one knee, his eyes lighting up as he engaged. It would not be an easy shot. There were almost a half-dozen hard variables and intangibles: the consistency of the red bricks, the arbitrary shifts in wind as it swirled through the square, and the uncertainty of the second guard’s reaction time. If he made the first shot, he would need to move quickly to take out the second before he could disappear, or at least fast enough that a shot through the brittle brickwork could do its job. If he missed, with the patrols below already alerted to their presence, there would be trouble. Chip breathed out slowly and smiled. He lived for challenges like this.
The larger of the two guards stirred in the shadow, rising to his feet and pacing between the arches. Chip sighted in right between his eyes, carefully tracing the languid sway of his movements with his rifle. He glanced sideways at Tyco, nodding slowly to let him know he had his shot.
Tyco mo
tioned for Ghost and Hog to slide to the side. They went, crouching low behind cover as they spread out wide.
“Be ready.” Tyco tapped across the comm, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder in preparation.
Chip squeezed slowly and steadily, feeling the gun rock as the bullet fired. His target went down immediately, the dark red stain on the wall behind him leaving no question of the outcome. Painless and quick, just as Tyco had ordered.
The second guard disappeared into the station instantly, even as Chip swung his rifle towards him. He shook his head and sighed, shouldering the weapon and drawing his pistol instead.
“No shot.” He growled, and Tyco leapt into action. They had to move immediately if they wanted to keep the survivor from sounding the alarm. He stepped over a concrete barrier in the middle of the street, breaking into a run and waving the others forwards with him. There was no response from the surviving guard, and the team rushed quickly, unopposed across the open square and into the station.
They found the boy cowering on the floor in the ticket booth, clutching his rifle with its safety still on. He was thin, almost absurdly so next to the muscled body of fallen comrade, and even younger even than Tyco had thought. Judging from his clear, haunted eyes and dimpled skin, he could not have been older than 17, and it was clearly taking everything he had not to cry.
“Put the gun down.” Tyco commanded, wearily. The boy obeyed, letting it fall onto the cracked tiles and raising his hands in surrender. “Hog.” Tyco nudged her forwards, and she swept in, frisking him quickly, brusquely, but not brutally. Searching his pockets for weapons. Among the crumbs of moldy rations and crumpled service papers, she found a knife and one extra magazine – no more. The paltry munitions ration of a rebel grunt.
“They’re even worse off than we are…” Ghost muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
“Must be a new recruit…” Hog offered, staring down at the whimpering boy, nodding at the clear skin at the back of his neck. “He’s clean.”
Tyco nodded and stepped forward towards the boy. “Look at me.” He said, staring down into the boy’s frightened eyes. “You’re going to be alright. We’re not going to kill you.”
The boy nodded slowly, clearly unsure if he could believe the men who had just killed his partner.
“This isn’t your fight.” Tyco said, continuing on, speaking with the certainty of experience. “This war is over for you.”
The boy nodded again, his eyes slowly coming to life as the words found a spark somewhere inside of him.
“You’re going to get up now, and walk out of here. You’re going to leave this city and not look back. If anyone asks you where you’re going, tell them you’ve been reassigned, and keep walking. The sooner you get clear, the better.”
The boy nodded again, closed his eyes, and cleared his throat. When he looked up again, it was as if years had fallen from his face. As he must have looked before the war came.
“Thank you.” He said, and stood.
“Give him his weapons.” Tyco instructed. “He might need them.”
Hog handed them to him by the entrance, watching him cautiously with a hand on her gun. “Don’t do anything stupid.” She said, and he nodded again.
The boy stepped out into the street unsteadily, with the grateful exhaustion of a man whose world has been lifted from his shoulders, and headed across the square, making for a side street that led away from the city center and the destruction below.
Chip passed him on the way into the station, staring at him coolly, but the boy looked neither right nor left. He disappeared into the alley, head high and staring directly ahead.
“What’s the story there?” Chip asked Hog quietly.
“Cap let him go.” Hog shrugged, expecting scorn or anger from the sniper. But Chip nodded in approval.
“Good.” He said, with the faintest of smiles. “I hate killing the young ones.” Without another glance at the young soldier, he marched past her and into the building.
The station was a mess. Garbage was everywhere, spread across the floor and clogging the stairs and platforms. The control room was ripped to shreds, blackened and charred where the rebels had exploded charges to break open its safe. They had succeeded, too: the reinforced steel door hung open on its hinges, swinging lazily to reveal the empty container behind it. The trains sat idly above as if meekly waiting their turn, grouped along the thin metal band of track rising out from under the flapping, bullet-riddled roof and into the daylight.
Tyco stared up at the destruction, trying not to show the worry in his face. Looking at the rusted, savaged hulks, it was hard to believe that these trains would ever run again. He watched as Shelley entered the control room, took one look at the destroyed computer, and shook his head.
“No,” The man said simply, turning to Tyco with a firm shake of his head. “I can’t fix this.”
“You haven’t tried.” Tyco answered evenly, holding his gaze.
“There’s nothing to try with.” Shelley answered. “They’ve ripped out the wires!”
“There must be something else you can do.” Tyco answered, his voice sounding drawn and frustrated. “There’s always another way.” And then he added, with a touch of playful scorn: “Unless you want to chance it out there on the street.”
“Alright Commander.” Shelley nodded quietly, glancing back at the ruined controls. “Let me think.”
Tyco turned to Chip wearily. “Get up high,” He said. “Just in case.”
Chip snorted and headed up the stairs to find a vantage point. For a long minute, his heavy footsteps were the only sound in the building, echoing off the walls and over the abandoned wreckage. He reached the top step with a deep sigh, then turned and walked forwards towards the platform. The sounds of his boots died away gradually as he walked ever farther into the abandoned hall, until they stopped altogether.
“Hey, Cap,” Chip’s voice sounded on the comm. “You gotta see this.”
“I don’t have time – “ Tyco said, but the static in return interrupted him.
“Trust me,” Chip answered. “You do.”
Tyco sighed and rolled his eyes at Hog. Leaving the control room, he made for the stairway, following Chip’s path up to the platform. The roof groaned as he climbed, its metal joints grinding as if coming apart at the seams. The whole structure was more rickety up close than it had looked from below. The fist-sized bullet holes in the roof cast thin cones of light down onto the track, shifting slightly as the wind gusted overhead and through the open platform.
“So, what do you think?” Chip asked as he approached. There was a strange, gleeful excitement in his voice. Tyco stared across the dirty tracks, at the lifeless, abandoned trains still standing on them, and could not find the source of his enthusiasm.
“What - ?” he started, but Chip interrupted him again, pointing his rifle down the track towards a long, sleek, grey mass at the far end.
“Over there.” He said, and smiled again, expectant and proud.
Tyco started towards the form, trying to make it out in the uneven light. It was a train, that much was certain, but there was something different about it. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. He approached it slowly and cautiously, as if fearing that he might startle it in haste. And then the shape came into focus, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Oh.” He said, at last, with distinct appreciation. There, at the end of the track, cued in the junction nearest the exit, was a long, narrow train car, tapered into the shape of a bullet. Its sides were sleek and thick with plated steel that covered every inch of its frame. This was no ordinary rail car. It had been armored and militarized, its siding reinforced until it was almost impenetrable to assault, and it was beautiful.
He stepped towards it, taking in its sweeping, smooth, aerodynamic armor, admiring its meticulously crafted lines. Far better than the ordinary, civilian trains in line behind it, this one would offer his team protection during their ascent towards the Old City, even if
they were discovered and attacked. Its sides looked strong enough to take a direct hit from an RPG, its belly thick enough to resist a land mine. If they could get it running, this just might get them through the city. Chip nodded grandly, gratified by Tyco’s sincere, wordless appreciation.
With just the faintest hope, Tyco bent and picked up a crumpled metal can, empty, half-rusting, and reeking of ferment. Weighing it carefully in his hand, he reached out and dropped it down onto the track. Chip flinched instinctively, expecting fireworks as metal found voltage below.
But the can bounced off listlessly, with a dull clang, and fell into the dust and debris under the rails. Tyco shook his head. That would have been too much luck in one day.
“Well,” Tyco said, with a nod of approval. “We get power back, that’ll do the trick.” And he looked involuntarily back downstairs, towards the control room where he had left the others. “You better get in position,” He told Chip. “It might be a while.”
Shelley and the team weren’t in the control room when Tyco returned. The broken control panel had been cracked open, the wires tangled and spilling out, spliced and reassembled. Several degrees past what Tyco had done in the elevator shaft, he couldn’t make heads or tails of Shelley’s work here, but his unannounced absence was not encouraging.
“Uh, Hog - ?” He tapped in. The station creaked on quietly in response. “Chip, did you hear anything?”
“Negative.” Chip tapped back laconically. “Trouble?”
“I don’t know.” Tyco answered, searching the ground for clues. The floor was a mess of footprints, dominated by regulation army boots of all sizes tracking through the mud and garbage. There was no way of knowing which, if any, belonged to Hog, or Ghost – their tracks looked the same as all the rest.
Hard Drop Page 13
