by Dan Abnett
"CPR is the best we can do until it gets here," said Falk.
"When the pack arrives, you'll need the endotracheal tube and a bag valve mask," said Underwood.
Rash had begun CPR. From behind them, Milla uttered a cry.
Falk turned to look.
"What is it?" he asked.
She was staring out of the window at the firelit night.
He got up, joined her. The depot fire still lit the valley, and the armour fight was still blinking and blistering along the highway line. A soft rain of burning cinders, glowing like coals was snowing down across the landscape, the consequence of the vast depot eruption.
But there were vehicles approaching, coming up the edge of the meadow, on the same side as the house. They were transport trucks, light utility vehicles, running with their lights off, but the glare of the depot flare was so huge, visibility was like a strong sunset.
There were three of them. Three trucks. Behind them, at a distance, two more.
"Are they coming here?" Milla asked him. It was the first time she addressed him directly.
"Yeah," he said.
"Who are they?"
He adjusted his glares, applied a touch of zoom and vision balance. The trucks were SObild carriers, pretty standard cargo ATVs, painted drab-black. They were the sort of military utility vehicle either side might use. But his money was on Bloc forces. But why were they coming this way? Were they fleeing the fight, or hunting for an objective? Were they simply looking for a fall-back position to defend in the face of the high-scale SOMD aggression?
One thing was certain. There wouldn't be any negotiating. From the moment they began taking Eyeburn down and eliminating the locals, the Bloc ops force had demonstrated zero interest in talking about anything. This was serious business, professional. There was no wiggle room whatsoever.
"We've got company coming!" he called out.
"How much?" Rash replied.
"Too much."
Valdes hurried over to the window beside Falk and the girl. He groaned.
"We've got to go, man," he said to Falk. "I mean, just go! I don't run from fights, but I don't mind running from stupid!"
"What about Bigmouse?" Rash said.
"I don't want to ditch him, man!" Valdes cried, turning. "He's my brother, and I don't want to ditch him, no way! But he's already gone, Rash! Look at him! And if we stay here for him, he will get us scorched!"
Rash stared at Falk. He was still applying CPR. Lenka was kneeling beside him, holding Bigmouse's head steady.
"I guess it's your call," he said to Falk.
"Is it?" Falk replied. "Is it really? That's fucking great."
Preben and Tal ran back into the room lugging a large green plastic medi-crate.
"We've got vehicles inbound!" Preben declared, slightly out of breath.
"We know," replied Falk.
Preben set the crate down beside the couch.
"We've got to exit," he said. "Absolutely now."
"Yes, we have," said Falk.
Rash was still applying CPR. Every time his head came up, he looked at Falk.
"You got a pulse?" Falk asked.
"No," said Rash.
Falk looked at Tal.
"Open the box fast," he said in Russian. "We need a throat tube and a bag mask."
She nodded, and swung the lid off the plastic case.
"What are you doing?" Preben asked. "We haven't got time for any of that shit!"
"We tube him. We bring him with us," said Falk.
"Fuck, he's dead, Bloom!" Preben cried.
"We tube him, we bring him with us," said Rash softly.
Preben gazed down at Rash.
"You're both fucking insane. Pretards. Total pretards!"
"You and Valdes," said Rash. "Go keep the back door clear. The back of the annexe. We'll have to leave that way."
He glanced at Falk.
"Right?"
Falk nodded.
"Right. Do like Rash said. Keep the area clear. Even if we don't get far, we want to get into the trees at least. Maybe get down in cover, wait for them to move on."
Valdes and Preben stared at him.
"What? Am I speaking Russian again?" he snapped. "Get the fuck on with it!"
"Jesus!" Valdes replied.
"Do it quiet! Quiet!" Falk insisted. "No shooting unless you absolutely have to. If we can sneak out, that's a better way to go."
They turned to leave.
"Preben!" Falk called. He picked up Bigmouse's hefty thumper and the bag of grenade shells.
"If you do have to start shooting, make it count."
Preben nodded. Fast and fluid, he clamped his M3A to his back plate, slung the shell bag around his neck and took the thumper. He and Valdes headed for the annexe. Valdes was still grumbling.
Falk glanced back at the view. The lead truck was less than a minute away. The burning soot was still snowing.
"Okay, we're going to intubate him," he announced.
"And you know how to do that?" Rash asked.
"There's probably no point if there isn't a pulse," said Underwood, like she was suddenly standing right beside him.
"We'll do it anyway," Falk said. Tal had found a mask with a rubberised bag valve. She was stripping the sterile plastic wrap off an intestinal loop of plastic tubing.
"This?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, and took it. He looked at Milla. "Go take the plastic sheeting off that couch," he said. "Try not to rip it."
She hurried to obey.
"Tilt his head back," said Underwood. "You need to open the airway as wide as possible. You'll have to pull the tongue forward and down, most likely, to stop it getting in your way. Use a depressor, if you have one. Or your fingers."
Falk moved Lenka aside, and got hold of Bigmouse's head. There was frothy blood around the man's lips. He felt cold.
"I think," said Rash, "I think there might be a pulse now. Really far away."
Falk nodded. He took the tube that Tal was holding out.
"Don't slide the tube down his oesophagus," Underwood said quietly. "Don't force it. You don't want to jam it into the wrong pipe, and you don't want him to aspirate stomach contents into his lungs."
"How will I know if I'm getting it down his oesophagus?" he asked. He was fiddling with the floppy tube, with Bigmouse's lips and tongue.
"I don't fucking know!" Rash replied.
"Just slide it in," said Underwood calmly. "Do the best you can."
Falk began to insert the tube. His hands were trembling. It was like trying to feed a snake through a wet sports sock.
Was this how the snake had ended up in his own stomach?
He fed it in further. He felt a tremor that might have been a slight gag reflex in Bigmouse's throat muscles.
"Go on, go on," said Rash.
"Is it in yet?" Underwood asked.
"Almost," said Falk. He glanced over his shoulder at the girls. Milla had pulled a large sheet of thick, clear wrapping free.
"Lay that out on the floor," he said to her in Russian. "Lay it flat, then fold it over several times, double or triple layers, but keep the sheet long. We need to make a sling to carry him. Like a hammock. Yeah?"
Milla nodded. She and Lenka started to flatten the plastic and lay it out.
"Okay, it's not going to go in any further," said Falk.
"Fine," said Underwood. "Tape it off to his cheek or chin, then connect the end to the mask and start pumping the bag."
"Tape!" said Falk. Tal fished a roll out of the box, and started to peel off strips of it. Falk secured the tube end to Bigmouse's face. The tube pushed Bigmouse's mouth open in a half-gape, so he looked like a man gagging as he tried to either swallow or regurgitate an eel.
"Give me the mask," Falk said.
Rash handed it to him. It took a second to discover how the plastic connector mated, then he pressed it in place and anchored it with the strap and more tape.
"Squeeze it," he told Rash. "The bag, the
bag."
Rash started to pump the bag. There was a nasty, sucking, crackling noise as air went in and out of Bigmouse's slack body. Falk checked Bigmouse's throat, pressed his fingertips in.
"That is a pulse," he said. "That's definitely a pulse."
He looked at the others.
"Okay, we're going to lift him. You and me, Rash. Tal, please, keep working the bag."
He realised he'd said it all in Russian.
"I got the gist," said Rash, getting his arms around Bigmouse's lower legs as Tal took over with the mask.
Falk got his hands under Bigmouse's shoulders.
"Support his head as we lift," he told Tal in Russian. She nodded.
"On three. One, two, three."
They got him off the couch, and shuffled him across the carpet until they were standing over the laid-out rectangle of plastic sheet.
"Down, gently," Falk said. They lowered him. All the while, Tal kept the bag pumping with her left hand and cupped the back of Bigmouse's skull with her right. Then he was flat on the plastic.
"You do this," Tal said to Lenka, demonstrating how to keep the pump going. "You do this and don't stop. Milla and me, we lift the feet."
"Okay," said Falk.
Rash saw what they were doing.
"I'll get the heavy end," he said to Falk. "You take point and walk us out."
"Sure?" asked Falk.
"It's your fucking show," said Rash.
Falk got up and retrieved the Koba. Rash clamped his PAP to his plate, then crouched beside Bigmouse's head and gathered in the hem of the sheeting and wrapped it around his right hand for grip. Milla and Tal did the same at the feet, pulling the plastic into a papoose around Bigmouse's form. Lenka kept pumping the bag the way she'd been shown.
"Okay, let's lift," said Rash.
Between them, Rash and the two girls raised Bigmouse in the plastic sling. It was heavy and unwieldy, but much easier than trying to carry him loose.
"Move," said Rash. "I don't want to just stand here."
Falk led the way out through the hall into the annexe, moving slowly so they could keep up, struggling along under the burden.
"What's the situation?" asked Underwood. "Falk? What's going on? Is he breathing?"
"Leaving is more of a priority," Falk replied quietly.
"What?" asked Rash.
"Nothing," Falk replied. Quietly, he added, "Put Cleesh back on."
"What did you say?" Rash called.
"Just keep it coming," said Falk.
Preben and Valdes had blown out the candles on their way through the annexe, but amber light was flooding into the darkness through the windows and skylights. Falk adjusted his glares for low light, kept the Koba up. He could feel cold, outdoor air on his face, smell the damp. He could smell burning too, the falling cinders. He edged down towards the annexe exit, with the carry team shuffling along behind him. The plastic sheeting was making so much fucking noise.
The back door was ajar. Amber night outside, cool, rainstorm air. Already, the scents of petrochemicals and smoke were evident. A few snowflake coals, glowing orange, floated past.
Behind the house there was a turfed area growing thick with invasive meadow grasses, a gulley, and then the dark woods beyond. To his right was the extension of the service block, a structure containing a bulk rainwater tank and filtration system, and several large composting tubs. To his left, a row of oil or grit drums against the wall, and the corner of the house. There was no sign of Valdes or Preben. Falk could hear engines, loud, approaching.
Did they have time to move? Could they get through the door and across the grass into the trees? Could they disappear before the visitors arrived?
He was actually going to try it, but Preben appeared, to his left, running back from the end of the house, shaking his head.
"They're already at the front," he hissed. "Two trucks, squads in each one. They're stopping, dismounting."
"Shit. Where's Valdes?"
"Fuck knows!"
The third truck suddenly came into view. Passing the others, it had swung around to the rear of the house. Its lights were still off. It came through the long grasses, rollering the brush and damp turf flat with its heavy, crossterrain wheels. Preben and Falk ducked back into the doorway. The SObild pulled up almost opposite the door. Men jumped out. In the shadow of the house, headlamps came on, pooling splashes of blue-white light in front of the vehicle and across the outblock and water plant. They could smell the heat and fumes of the truck. Blurds began swirling excitedly in the headlights.
"Back! Back!" Preben whispered at Rash and the girls. They edged their cargo backwards down the annexe hall.
Voices raised outside. Falk tightened his grip on the Koba. The SObild driver, the squad leader, had jumped down, pulling an assault weapon into place on a shoulder sling, racking it. He was issuing instructions. The men getting out of the truck with him began to fan out. Some were coming right for the doorway. It was so matter-offact, so routine. The ordinariness of it made it so much more sinister. Go in there. Look in the door. If you see anybody, shoot them. We've got things to do.
"Get the doorway!" Falk heard the leader shout in Russian. "Stick a slapcharge in there! Get the place checked! Pera, go around the side!"
There was no hope of hiding. In a second, a concussion charge was going to come bouncing in through the door, bowled underarm.
This was what the Hard Place really meant.
Falk glanced at Preben. He could see how fixed and intent the man's expression was. Preben understood that they had entered, miserably, one of those non-negotiable states where even fear was no longer currency.
Falk tapped the thumper in Preben's hands, then indicated a direction to the right of the door, the outblock.
"Show me how to do this," Falk whispered. Preben nodded, but Falk had been talking to Nestor Bloom.
He stepped out of the door. The Koba was already at his shoulder. Coming right towards him were two Bloc troopers in rugged black blate and webbing. They had been advancing to take positions on either side of the doorway, to check and enter. Both had Kobas. One had a slapcharge in his hand, produced from his pouch.
Falk put the first burst into the other man's face, because slapcharge-man was fumbling. The other man's weapon was ready. It was intensely short range, no more than three yards. Falk aimed high because the man had decent ballistic plate. It was instinct.
His target's head pulped in a spray of pink meat and bone, like a watermelon smashing. His face disintegrated before it had time to register anything, surprise, alarm, anger. The man walloped down onto his back, his feet coming up as though they had been expertly swept and lifted.
Falk was already turning to fire a burst at the second man. Not so clean. The shots ripped across his chest blate, spinning him up and around like a street dancer executing a roll drop. The slapcharge sailed out his hand. He made a huge oooff grunt as the rounds struck him, like the comedy gasp of a winded cartoon character.
Preben almost pushed Falk out of the way as he followed him through the doorway. He was turning right, his boots sliding in the wet grass. The thumper cannoned two grenade rounds in the direction of the compost tubs and the outblock. The Bloc squad members who had been spreading that way wheeled around at the bark of Falk's first burst, surprised, horrified, guns coming into line. Two of them got off shots. One flurry zipped past in front of Falk, whiplash cracks. The other burst hit the doorframe and house wall beside Preben.
The grenades exploded. The first hit the outblock wall, and the compressed force threw three of the men across the yard as though they had been tossed from a speeding vehicle. The other grenade detonated as it struck the sternum of the man whose shots had just missed Preben. The blastforce drove him down into the ground like a peg, and left his upper body and arms mangled and burning. The Koba clutched in his scorched hands emptied its clip, crazy and jigging, killing the side of the house in a shower of masonry dust, plastic flecks and shattering shingles.
Falk kept moving. If a bullet was going to find him, it would find him. He wasn't going to stop and wait for it, or cower in the hope it would miss. Once he had emerged from the back door, he broke stride only once to shoot the two men face-to-face, then kept bolting, running towards the truck. The Bloc squad leader and the two other men with him could have shot Falk easily, but simple animal instinct made them turn and run. Falk was running, they should run too. They didn't even think about it. It was pure threat response. By the time their brains had processed the situation, a synapse zap later, they were turning away, out of position, all advantage lost. Falk shot one with a burst that split the man's back blate up the centre line and ploughed him down onto his face.
