Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  Finally the crowd quieted and the speaker began a long introduction, first listing an array of the President’s accomplishments. He exhorted the crowd to support the President in his latest attempts to unite the country and how their support was needed now more than ever. The speaker then introduced the people on the stage.

  Gaby swore as she listened to the roar from the crowd. If the podium had been set up where it was supposed to be, she would have had an easy kill shot. The whole thing would have been over in the first moment and the subsequent attack would have just been doing clean-up work on the rest of the leadership. She took a deep breath, gave the rifle a reassuring tap with her hand and waited for the President to begin to speak.

  ◆◆◆

  “Anything happening?” Number Six spoke from the step below Cori.

  “Nothing yet.” Cori studied the monitor in front of her. There was no audio so she would have to wait for the first sign of something unusual or of confusion before she and Number Six would burst forth from the ground. She tapped her hand in a nervous rhythm against her bow and waited for any hint of a reaction from the people on the stage. “Remember, come out with the fire quick. The quicker you do that, the more shots we can get off.”

  “Got it.”

  “We’re only going to get one chance at this. Let’s get it right.”

  ◆◆◆

  Simon followed Malouf’s friend, moving when he did and stopping when he stopped. He kept a discreet distance, trying to keep at least one person between them. He was in the perfect spot next to the motorcade when Kennedy was shot. Maybe he’s trying to get in the best spot now. The man threaded his way through the crowd, toward the limousines. Occasionally, he slowed his pace and tapped his ear and Simon realized he was communicating with someone.

  Malouf’s friend stopped and appeared to be searching for someone. He nodded and looked to his left, where another of his group stood next to a tree. The other man returned the nod and the first responded with a thumb up, then continued on his way toward the limousines while the second one fell back to an empty area further back from the crowd.

  Simon paused, momentarily undecided as to what to do. He made a decision, took one step in the direction of the first man and then froze.

  Beyond Malouf’s friend, in the middle of the crowd, one face was not looking toward the podium. That person was staring directly at Simon from underneath a white hoodie that hung down over one part of his face. Dead eyes targeted him from behind dark, thick-rimmed glasses and then thin lips parted to reveal a flash of white teeth jutting forth at odd angles.

  Simon stood transfixed, the security of the President forgotten.

  ◆◆◆

  Shit! She had no shot. The introduction ended, everyone jumped to their feet in full applause and she still couldn’t see the President. Somewhere, the others were waiting on her and she had no shot.

  “Fuck it.” Gaby pulled the 300 Win Mag up to the window and placed it between the slats. She angled the barrel as far as she could toward the center of the stage, took a deep, calming breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The sharp noise reverberated through the small room and the recoil slammed the rifle into her shoulder. She winced, quickly pulled the bolt back and dropped another cartridge into the cylinder.

  Steady. She sighted the rifle and pulled the trigger again. Below her, the chanting ceased and was replaced by a low buzz of confused voices.

  “Damn it.” She pulled the bolt back again. She was only supposed to fire twice, but she was frustrated. The Professor had promised her the kill shot at the President and she’d spent a week in this hell-hole to have it. And now she couldn’t even see the fucker.

  She lifted the rifle and fired again. She waited, peeking through the slats, trying to see if she had by chance hit the President. A man staggered across the stage, gripping his arm, a red stream of blood running down his side, but she couldn’t see his face.

  Below her, screams pierced the air. Reluctantly, she stepped down from the box, lay the 300 Win Mag on the floor, and slipped the two bags over her shoulders, one with her personal effects and one full of waste. She hurried to the exit, threw both backpacks through the small opening, and then climbed through herself. Glancing back, she made sure she had left nothing behind except the weapon, then pushed the metal handle forward, closing the hatch. She pulled the rope ladder from one of the backpacks, doused it with gasoline then attached the rope ladder to the ceiling and put one foot in the first rung. As she did, the building shook with the force of an explosion.

  Gaby moved awkwardly down the ladder, and then jumped the last three rungs, landing in a crouch. For the time being, hopefully the focus would hopefully be on the action outside. She pulled a lighter from her pocket, clicked it and put it under the rope ladder. Flames lapped at the end of the rope just as another explosion sounded, and people began flooding through the doors and into the foyer, screaming, some injured, all running from the explosions. Gaby slung the backpacks over her shoulder, glanced up at the rope, which was disappearing in a smoky cloud and mixed with the others fleeing out the back doors of the building.

  ◆◆◆

  On the monitor a man stiffened and then ran. The President stopped speaking, a startled look on his face. From all sides, dark-suited agents bolted toward him, reaching out to him, weapons drawn.

  Cori reached up, shoved the trap door open, and leapt out onto open ground. She surveyed the field in front of her and then stood upright, her feet shoulder-length apart. She placed the arrow on the bow and then positioned her fingers around the arrow.

  Number Six climbed out behind her, a lighter held in one hand. “Ready?”

  “Do it.”

  “The fuse is lit.”

  She gazed down the length of the arrow, aligned it with the target, and drew the bow string back. She hesitated for a moment and then let go.

  “Fuck, it went over the stage.” A huge explosion punctuated her words.

  Number Six laid a hand on her shoulder. “Settle down. Take your time and put it on top of him.”

  Cori nodded, took a deep breath and steadied herself. She set another arrow on the bow and drew the string back again. “Okay, do it.”

  “It’s lit.”

  She sighted down the arrow, squinted for the briefest of moments and let it go.

  “Man, I think you nailed that one.” The arrow flew in a long arc and came down on one side of the stage. There was a moment of silence and then an explosion ripped through the podium. A portion of the structure spun in slow revolutions in the air before it tumbled into the crowd.

  Number Six clapped her on both shoulders. “You did it! You did it!”

  “One more.”

  “We’re only supposed to do two.”

  “Goddammit, light one more.”

  “We could hit our guys.”

  “We could hit him, too. Do it!”

  Cori reached down, picked an arrow from her backpack and placed it onto the bow. Behind her, Number Six hesitated and then, with a sigh, stuck his lighter under the fuse. “It’s ready.”

  Cori released the arrow and dropped the bow down to her side. They both stood transfixed as they watched the arrow fly over the crowd and land between the stage and the limousines. Number Six held a hand instinctively in front of his face as a yellow flash leapt from the ground and the rumble of the explosion rolled over them.

  ◆◆◆

  The crack of a gunshot drew Simon’s attention from the mocking smile, to the podium. Another shot sounded and Simon turned just in time to catch a glint of sunlight reflecting off of something from the bell tower.

  Before he could react, a blur of movement passed in front of him from right to left. He followed the line of flight back to its beginning as an explosion sounded behind him. A slight figure with a bow stood next to an opening in the ground, another arrow at the ready.

  So that was how they were coming at them. From the ground.

  Simon turned back t
o the man in the white hoodie, but he was gone. He searched the crowd and for a moment thought that he might have imagined the man.

  The thought disappeared as another explosion rocked the field. Yellow and purple colors flickered through grey smoke, and flames lapped at a part of the stage. He ran to the base of an oak tree to avoid the panicked crowd that now surged in his direction.

  He shielded his eyes and turned his attention back to the archer. She loosed another arrow and he moved to his left, putting the tree between him and the direction of the arrow. Another explosion detonated closer, between the podium and the limousine.

  In the middle of the mayhem, amid the screams and the hysterical, terrified, some bloodied, maelstrom of people blindly fleeing, he shook his head in wonder. All the Apache Helicopters and drones and retina scanners and hover bikes and cutting-edge weapons and security protections, and some girl had come out of the ground with a bow and some arrows.

  ◆◆◆

  “Why, you little shit.”

  The guard grabbed Beaux by her shirt and picked her almost off the ground. She should have known not to lose her temper with the guard, but if he hadn’t taken so much time hassling some protestors who were trying to get in, she could have been inside by now. Beaux kicked him between the legs and he released her and bent over, holding his groin.

  Another guard grabbed Beaux by the shoulder, and she whirled and hit him in the face with a clinched fist. He wiped blood from his mouth and took a step toward her but stopped suddenly, on full alert.

  “What was that?”

  Beaux rubbed her sore knuckles and turned to see what had caught his attention. “What?” The first guard raised up, his face twisted in pain.

  “I thought I…” A sharp crack sounded from the direction of the bell tower. “That’s a gunshot.”

  “Someone’s firing shots.” The guards hesitated and looked at each other as another shot rang out. They pulled weapons from their holsters and took off in the direction of the podium.

  Beaux grabbed her backpack from the ground and sprinted for the electric fence. On the other side, a crowd of screaming people ran straight for her. The first to arrive at the fence grabbed the wires, screamed and then writhed in pain. Beaux reached into her backpack, pulled out the rubber mat, and draped it over the top of the fence. She belly-flopped on the mat and slid over on to the ground on the other side. Jumping to her feet, she ran toward the podium.

  ◆◆◆

  Connor felt a slight tremor in the ground and voices sounded through the walkie talkie. He put a hand on the handle to the trap door and thought about not waiting on Number Eight. He released the handle and decided to wait. It would be better with two people and the timing might actually be better by letting the others strike first. Let the assault teams do their damage and then come out with the coup de gras. He heard a huffing sound of quick, deep breaths mixed in with expletives coming from the tunnel.

  He readied to go above ground.

  ◆◆◆

  Numbers Two and Three came out of the tunnel close to where the limousines were parked. They hit the ground immediately at the sound of an explosion. “Isn’t that one too many arrows?” Number Two raised his head warily.

  “I think so.”

  Number Two put his hand on the arm of Number One. “Let’s wait just a second to make sure that crazy bitch is through shooting.”

  Number One nodded. “I’m with you.”

  A large man in a suit appeared through the smoke and haze. He stumbled, reached a hand to the ground for support and went to his knees. He gave a sideward glance at them and then he fell to the ground, a shard of metal embedded in his neck.

  “Look.” Number Two motioned to the podium.

  “Holy shit.”

  Wisps of smoke hovered over the limousines, revealing at intervals the bodies of security guards. “And over there.” Number Two pointed to the podium. People knelt in a combination of confusion and fright, seemingly unsure whether to run or hide, others afraid to move. Men in uniforms stood in front of the stage, screaming, waving automatic weapons in a schizophrenic mode, searching for attackers. On the stage, men in coats and ties, guns drawn, yelled into the microphones attached to their lapels as they formed an uneven circle around another group of men whose clothing appeared bloody and disheveled. The agents tugged at them with urgency, hands under elbows, lifting them in support and in a protective, unorganized, shifting circle, attempted to move off the stage.

  Number Three reached for the grenade that was attached to his belt and held it up questioningly at Number Two. Number Two nodded and grabbed his own grenade. The pair raised up to their knees, slung their assault weapons on their backs, and held the grenades in front of them. They pressed the levers down and pulled the pins. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On three.” Number Two gave a silent nod. “One, two,” Number Two pursed his lips, took a deep breath and then gave a small, wry smile. “Three.”

  They rose and ran through the smoke toward the podium, each issuing an unplanned scream. The men in uniform swung their weapons in their direction and opened fire. Number Three’s last sight was of his grenade in full flight headed in the direction of the group of men trying to get off the stage. He fell to the ground, the right side of his head gone.

  Number Two fell in mid-throw, a line of bullets cosseted diagonally across his chest, his grenade wobbling from his hand and bouncing in the direction of the podium. He lay on the ground, his body splayed outward in an awkward fashion, face flat against the ground as he watched his grenade explode among the security men in uniform around the stage. He saw another explosion up on the stage and, the wry smile still affixed, closed his eyes.

  ◆◆◆

  Cori cast her bow aside and brought her assault weapon from her backpack. Number Six grabbed her by the arm. “What are you doing? We’re supposed to get back to the cavern.”

  Smoke covered the field and the haze obscured the screaming crowd. The steady ‘pat pat pat’ of automatic weapons firing filled the air. She winced as two explosions sounded almost simultaneously.

  Cori pulled her mask tight around her face. “You go. I’m gonna make sure that guy doesn’t make it out of here.” Number Six hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the open hole and safety. “Go,” Cori urged.

  “Okay.” Number Six pulled his weapon from his shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  They moved stealthily across the field but stopped at the whir of rotor blades. Cori turned just as a hover bike swooped in a downward arc toward them. “Get down!”

  They both dropped to the ground. The pilot unleashed a steady stream of fire from the vibrating grey turrets attached to its side. Less than ten feet behind Cori, Number Six’s body jumped and jerked under a fusillade of bullets.

  The hover bike circled and came back around. Cori stood, planted her feet and readied her weapon. For a moment she thought she saw the pilot’s leering smile. As the hover bike closed in, the grey turrets began vibrating and a steady stream of bullets plowed the ground in front of her. She stood firm, waiting for a close shot, and then, at the last moment, pulled the trigger, firing a long burst into the underbelly of the hovercraft. There was a hiccup and then a sputter of the engine and she, again, had an image of the pilot, this time his face with an air of surprise and twisted in anguish. She unleashed another round into the hover bike’s carriage. Smoke curled from its engine and it abruptly turned over in mid-air and fell to the ground with a dull thud.

  Cori ran to the wreckage. In the cockpit, the pilot flailed about, trying to free a mangled leg. “Help me,” he pleaded, his voice filled with anguish.

  Cori raised her weapon and fired two quick shots, one for the head and the other for the body. A double tap. She paused, made sure he was dead, then went over to where Number Six lay. She stooped, turned him over and took off his mask. Dull, lifeless eyes stared unblinking back at her. She found a g
renade in her backpack and placed it under his chin. If he was identified as being one of the attackers, his family would pay the price. She said a brief prayer and pulled the pin.

  Cori pulled her mask off and threw it on the ground. She had no family.

  She turned and sprinted toward the podium.

  ◆◆◆

  “My God.” Bobby gaped at the television, the newspaper forgotten as the voices of the television announcers rose in alarm. “My God,” he said again. “What the…?”

  Mae Helen turned from the bar, her eyes wide and her face blank. Christina, hand protectively over her stomach, stared at the unfolding drama through watery eyes. “What’s going on out here?” Maddie asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she came from the kitchen.

  “I think someone tried to kill the President.” Mae Helen turned to Maddie in dismay but swung back to the television when another explosion sounded. “Oh, my God.”

  “Not tried. Trying.” Bobby corrected her, his eyes never leaving the action on screen.

  “Oh, my God. Beaux.” Maddie’s voice rose in alarm. “And Simon.”

  Another explosion sounded and then another. “My God,” Mae Helen said, barely able to get it out. On the screen, people ran from the field, trying to escape. The camera panned to the fence, where people clung to the wires, screaming, or were pulled away with burns on their hands and faces. “Oh, my God. Those people are getting electrocuted.”

  Christina turned away, swiping at her eyes, and hurried to the window of the restaurant that faced the campus. A thin plume of grey smoke moved skyward and, suddenly, a yellow bolt of light flashed against the backdrop of the smoke. The light disappeared as quickly as it had come, followed by a sound like distant thunder.

  A tear tracked down her cheek. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered.

  ◆◆◆

  Simon crouched by the tree, watching, his weapon drawn and gripped in both hands. The crowd that had been so exuberant moments ago was in a frenzied run and hide mode, some in hysterics, others darting from one place to another and diving to the ground, all desperate to escape the explosions and gunfire.