Alex peeked around the corner, scanning the street toward Governors Avenue. A blood-orange band of sky stretched across the western horizon, hanging above the quiet street. A few stragglers moved up the sidewalk in the distance. They’d have to be extremely cautious crossing open spaces, especially streets.
Just hours after the “event,” the Department of Homeland Security issued orders to disarm citizens on sight. Thirty-six hours later, those orders might include “shoot on sight” considerations. Armed men sneaking around at night would go at the top of that list. The M240G machine gun mounted to the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle turret would make short work of them, no matter where they tried to hide.
“Just a walk in the park,” he mumbled.
Chapter 39
EVENT +41:58 Hours
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Alex leaned against a tree and lifted his night vision goggles to check his watch. Four miles in three hours. The pace was agonizingly slow, but it had kept them out of trouble. After Medford, they strictly avoided commercial or business districts, opting for the quiet, pitch-black neighborhoods that most of the refugees avoided. They couldn’t avoid crossing major roads, but the continuous migration east toward Interstate 93 kept the main thoroughfares busy, providing enough urban camouflage to slip across and disappear. They’d seen two police cars and one military vehicle during their journey.
“Let’s stop here and take a break,” said Ed.
The smell of barbequed chicken wafted into the street, chased by raucous laughter.
“Probably not the best place for a pit stop.”
Alex took out the GPS plotter and examined the map. “Point eight miles to the Boston University Bridge. We’re almost there.”
“Alex, I need to stop. We’re about to run out of quaint, cobblestone-sidewalk streets to hide on. We need to find a quiet spot to rest up and eat. Try to learn something from the radio traffic Charlie’s been able to pick up. He’s been hearing about the marines guarding the bridges. We might be wasting our time headed to the BU bridge. Shit, that chicken smells good.”
“Judging by the laughter, I suspect the beer isn’t bad either,” Alex remarked.
Another round of laughter emptied into the street.
“Pretty careless to advertise like this,” said Ed.
“Maybe they don’t care,” said Alex. “There’s a park ahead. We’ll cut through and find a place to hide.”
Alex dropped his night vision goggles back in place and took a moment to scan the street ahead. Most of the three-story homes were pitch black. A few windows flickered bright green, indicating a candle. Nothing out of place beyond careless laughter and the smell of mesquite. He started forward, but the sudden appearance of green glow on the southern horizon stopped him. A deep, distant thumping reached his ears several seconds later, reminding him of a sound he hadn’t heard in over fifteen years. The eerie glow flickered and disappeared, replaced moments later by a similar, over-the-horizon shimmer.
“Hear that?” asked Alex.
“Can I say no?” said Ed.
“It’s usually not a good idea to ignore heavy-machine-gun fire. Probably the marines, or whoever is down there. I think they’re using aerial flares.”
“What could possibly require the use of a fifty-caliber machine gun?”
“Zombies,” said Alex.
“That’s not even funny.”
Alex approached the three-way intersection cautiously, weaving them between parked cars. The military vehicles they had spotted in Somerville didn’t use headlights, the drivers relying on night vision equipment to navigate the shadowy streets.
“Stay here,” Alex instructed. “Sennott Park should be across the street. Sounds too quiet to be another triage center or refugee camp.”
He slid along the remaining cars, crouching low and searching for signs of activity beyond the stripped bushes and trees on the other side of Broadway. He could identify a children’s playground directly ahead, and something to the left of it that looked familiar. Two bright green lines reached out from the edge of the park, terminating somewhere directly in front of him. He let his rifle hang loose in its sling and raised his hands high above his head.
“Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Put your hands as high as possible in the air, and step into the street,” said Alex.
“Why?”
“So the marines don’t kill you. I think we ran right into their headquarters.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” whispered Ed.
“I’m not joking. They’re almost on us. Don’t make any sudden moves, and do exactly what they say,” said Alex.
A diesel engine roared to life, swallowing his voice. A brilliant light whitewashed the green image of figures moving in his direction. He squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to move his hands to flip up the NVGs. A sizable vehicle screeched to a halt in front of him, a large-caliber weapon most assuredly centered on his body.
“Don’t move! United States Marines!” they screamed repeatedly.
He had no intention of moving, not even a twitch. He hoped Ed had the sense to do the same. Rough hands yanked his arms back while others groped for his rifle and pistol. He was disarmed in a matter of seconds. His night vision goggles were ripped from his head; then he was thrown face first onto the cobblestone.
The impact jammed the triple-stacked rifle magazines attached to his tactical rig into his chest and abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. He groaned as his face was pushed into the curb. His wrists were squeezed together, pulled unbearably tight by military-grade zip ties. Sharp surges of pain exploded at multiple points along his legs and sides as his gear was stripped with knives. He struggled, but was hit in the lower back with a rifle stock. The flat end of a bloodied knife was jammed against his right eye, the point digging into his temple.
“Stay down, or I’ll cut your fucking eyes out,” a voice hissed, the smell of wintergreen chewing tobacco inches from his face.
“Can you believe this fucker was trying to ghost us?” someone called out.
“He’s a stone-cold killer,” said Wintergreen.
“I wasn’t trying—”
The serrated blade pressed into his lips. Alex grimaced.
“Nobody asked for your opinion.”
He felt the marine’s hot, tobacco-heavy breath against the side of his face before everything faded.
Chapter 40
EVENT +43:10 Hours
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Alex fixated on the steady rumble of an industrial generator. He pulled at his restraints, confirming once again that he wasn’t going anywhere. The marines had stretched him prone and mercilessly secured his limbs to the four corners of the bare metal bed frame with zip ties. Moonlight from the room’s single window exposed a dark trickle rolling down his blood-encrusted left arm. His captors had tightened the plastic restraint too high on the wrist, digging into the thicker metacarpal bones.
The slightest movement reopened the wound, yet he still gave the zip ties an angry tug every few minutes—or what he thought was a few minutes. He had no idea. He faded in and out with no true concept of time. He knew it was nighttime, but that was about it. He couldn’t tell if it was the same night or three days later. He hadn’t soiled himself, so he guessed it hadn’t been very long.
He stared at the half-illuminated striped mattress lying across the desk next to his bed, one end sagging out of sight toward the floor. Another desk and bed sat pushed against the wall in the opposite corner. The marines had stripped Alex down to his underwear and left him to rot in a sweltering, stagnant college dorm room.
They’d done exactly what he would have done in the same situation: locked him up for later. They couldn’t afford to waste any time or energy on vetting Alex Fletcher. The situation in Boston would continue to deteriorate, occupying more of their attention and resources until the city reached a critical mass, forcing the marines to withdraw. He just
hoped they didn’t forget about him. They’d have little warning when it happened.
He lowered his head onto the metal frame and prayed for sleep. Anything to get his mind off the fact that he had effectively doomed Ryan and Chloe. Best-case scenario, the marines released them without their gear and they returned to the Jeep to gear up and try again. Worst-case scenario, the city fell apart around the marines and they were forgotten—or discarded. He’d let his guard down approaching Sennott Park. A stupid, exhaustion-fueled mistake that could cost them everything. Alex yawned, welcoming the waves of fatigue washing over him.
The door burst open, causing him to tense against the zip ties. Bright lights focused on the bed; boots shuffled through the room. He turned his head to the right, anticipating a vicious punch.
“Get one of the corpsman in here! What the fuck did you do to this guy?” said a gruff voice.
“He tried to ambush us,” said a marine hidden behind one of the flashlights.
A hollow snap dropped Alex’s left leg to the bed frame.
“Careful with the snips. You guys already did a number on him,” said a staff sergeant, leaning far enough into one of the beams for Alex to make a rank identification.
One by one, the rest of his limbs fell to the steel frame. They felt heavy, almost useless. A CamelBak hose was pressed against his mouth, and he turned away.
“It’s just water, Mr. Fletcher.”
Mr. Fletcher? They must have checked his ID. He drank from the hose for several seconds, letting the excess water dribble down the side of his mouth onto the black-and-white checkered linoleum tile beneath the bed. The hose tasted like chewing tobacco, but he didn’t care. He let the hose drop from his mouth and closed his eyes for a few moments, letting the fluid settle.
“You need to drink more.”
“You got one that doesn’t taste like Skoal?” said Alex. “Just kidding, sergeant. Thank you.”
“This is going to hurt a little,” said the corpsman, sprinkling powder from a green packet onto Alex’s wrist.
He tried to yank his hand away from the intense stinging, but the corpsman held it in place.
“Fuck, Doc. What is that?”
“It’s a combination of Celox and disinfectant. The disinfectant part stings a little,” said the corpsman.
“No shit,” Alex groaned.
“I need to rub this in all of your cuts. I don’t have time to wrap all of them.”
“Sprinkle away, Tinkerbell,” said Alex, bracing for the burn.
“No time for that,” called a sharp voice from the doorway. “Battalion commander would like a word with you.”
“I need to wrap the wrist, sir. Zip ties cut him pretty deep,” said the corpsman, digging through his med kit.
“Tidy up the wrist, and get him down to the TOC (Tactical Operations Center), Corpsman.” He turned to Alex. “Can you walk?”
“I should be fine, Captain. They didn’t hobble me.”
“They should have dropped you dead on the pavement. That little disguise kept you alive long enough to generate some discussion with the platoon commander. You stumbled right into one of our platoon HQs,” said the captain.
“My lucky day. What about the other guy on the street with me?” said Alex.
“Mr. Walker is doing fine. Enjoying a cup of coffee with the battalion commander as we speak,” said the officer. “Get him down to the TOC, ASAP.”
“Got it, sir.”
***
Dressed in his original clothes, which now featured bloodstained, custom ventilation slits along his right thigh and ribcage, Alex followed Doc and Wintergreen through the cramped dormitory hallway. Deep red chemlights dangled from an overhead wire running the entire length of the floor, bathing everything in a muted, monochromatic crimson aura. They passed an information board titled “Hollis Hall.” Alex had studied enough Boston-area college maps to pinpoint their location. He reached up and plucked the wire, glancing behind him at the dancing lights.
“Having fun back there?” said Wintergreen.
“Sort of. Did the battalion take all of Harvard Yard?”
“Shit if I know. I’m not an alumni.”
“Alumnus,” said Doc. “And no, the battalion just took the buildings in the northwest corner of the Old Yard. It was mostly empty dorms when we got here. Six buildings form a perimeter around a courtyard, chapel in the middle. It’s about as good as it gets in terms of a naturally defensible position in the middle of Cambridge. We’re spread too thin for anything else.”
“Doc’s one of the smart ones,” said Wintergreen.
“Not smart enough to go here,” said Doc, opening a door. “Welcome to Harvard, America’s oldest institution of higher learning. Now home to 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment.”
Alex stepped into the shadowy courtyard. A large tent was set up under the massive bare trees in the center of the courtyard. A flap opened, spilling bright light onto the grass. Two marines dashed toward the gap between Hollis Hall and a building with a small cupola protruding from its rooftop. Harvard Hall. Alex had reoriented himself quickly. Doc’s assessment made sense. The buildings formed a perfect rectangle, with minimum space between separate buildings. Half of the perimeter benefited from the formidable wrought-iron fencing along Cambridge Street. The two marines reached the opening and sprinted past sentries barely visible in the shadows.
“Sergeant, he’s all yours. I gotta get back to the triage center,” said the corpsman, splitting off.
Alex stopped him briefly. “How bad is it out there?” he asked.
“Bad. Every hospital is beyond capacity and barely functional. Anyone in the city exposed to the flash got second-degree burns. Some of the older buildings collapsed. Lots of partial collapses. Anyone who got up to check on the flash got hit by glass or branches. They’re saying it wasn’t a fucking nuke, but nobody’s buying it. This is exactly what they described in NBC training,” said the corpsman.
“Then the EMP,” Wintergreen chimed in.
“Then that. Something doesn’t add up, and nobody’s telling us shit,” said Doc. “Good luck, man.”
“You too,” said Alex.
“Battalion TOC is up here,” said Wintergreen, leading him across the grass.
“Where is everyone?”
“Half of Comms Platoon is manning the perimeter here and providing security at the vehicle gate. Medical section is out that way somewhere,” he said, pointing at Doc’s vanishing profile.
“We have a quick-reaction force made up of some Motor T guys and nonessential battalion staff. Everyone else is out on the streets. I’m headed back to my platoon once you’re delivered.”
“Which platoon are you with?” asked Alex.
“Indirect fire. 81’s.”
“No tubes?”
“Thank God, no. Only individual weapons. Pretty light.”
“Hopefully you won’t need any of it,” said Alex, amidst the brief, distant pounding of a fifty-caliber machine gun.
“I’m not hopeful.” He turned to a marine standing behind the tree near the entrance. Sergeant Evans with Mr. Fletcher,” he announced.
“Go ahead,” he heard, followed by a quick radio transmission notifying another marine inside the TOC.
Wintergreen, aka Sergeant Evans, opened the flap, releasing the sound of radio traffic and hurried voices, followed immediately by the pungent stench of stale coffee and perspiration. He could use some of that shitty coffee. Alex ducked into the tent and squinted in the bright light.
Modular folding tables—jammed with laptops, radio receivers, digital plotting gear and maps—ringed the tent. Men and women in Woodland MARPAT uniforms and full combat gear crowded the tables. Some in chairs, others standing—all of them speaking into headsets. To an outside observer it made about as much sense as the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. To the initiated, it signified the right amount of controlled chaos necessary to run a marine battalion. Nobody turned to acknowledge his entry.
A stu
rdier table divided the tent in half, holding up two immense, side-by-side flat-screen monitors, one displaying a map of the greater Boston area. The other focused on Cambridge and the areas north of the Charles and west of Interstate 93. Icons flashed on each monitor. A movie screen hung suspended from one of the tent’s center ceiling braces, extending down to the top of the monitors. The words “No Input” flashed in the center of the blue screen. Two marines sat at the middle table with their backs to the entrance. Ed sat hunched over the far end of the table, cradling a metal canteen cup.
“Sergeant Evans reporting,” he said.
A few heads turned, but the noise continued unabated. Ed grinned and started to get up, but stopped when one of the marines seated at the center table stood to face them.
“Thank you for not killing Mr. Fletcher, Sergeant Evans. Dismissed,” said the lieutenant colonel.
“Yes, sir,” said Evans.
“Yeah, thanks for not killing me,” said Alex, offering his hand.
Evans shook it quickly, anxious to get out of the tent. The lieutenant colonel’s dark brown eyes fixed him with an unemotional stare. The marine looked familiar, but Alex couldn’t place him. A long, lateral scar extended from the top of his cheek to the middle of his ear. His head was shaved clean. His skin was weathered and cracked, thick crow’s feet extending past the corners of his eyes. He’d seen his share of the Middle East, Africa and Afghanistan. Either that, or he spent his off hours on the beach. Somehow, Alex doubted that. 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment’s commanding officer had that undeniable, “been there, done that” look typical of senior marines. For the first time in years, Alex felt intimidated.
“So, what brings the infamous Captain Fletcher to Boston?” asked the lieutenant colonel.
Alex cocked his head and examined the marine’s face, finally recognizing it as one of the last faces he had seen in Iraq. Second Lieutenant Grady had taken shrapnel from the same rocket-propelled grenade warhead that had aerated Alex’s body. He’d just given Grady a set of medevac orders when the warhead detonated several feet from Grady’s Amphibious Assault Vehicle. Mostly protected by the AAV’s one-and-a-half-inch aluminum hull, Grady was hit by a single fragment, which opened his face to the bone.
The Perseid Collapse (The Perseid Collapse Series 1) Page 32
