Nearest Night

by David VanDyke

“Don’t get too happy. Things are a little dicey outside.”

  Others entered the hallway from the exit and shone lights their way.

  “It’s us,” Skull called out. “Larry’s with me.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” said a woman, limping forward. “We need to exfil right now.”

  Larry took Shadow by the shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 37

  Outside, Reaper swore as she heard the crash of a tank gun and the hammering of twenty-five-millimeter cannon. The top corner of the blockhouse exploded in a hail of concrete and rebar. She strained her eyes, but couldn’t see the armored vehicles in the blizzard, a blessing because the enemy undoubtedly couldn’t see them either.

  In fact, she couldn’t even see the front gates anymore, but she extrapolated the direction from the sounds of the vehicle-mounted weapons, waving her people to flee toward the west.

  “This way!” yelled Hawkeye from behind the wheel of a large, older-model military truck. Spooky sat beside him. Another vehicle was already moving toward the opposite exit with Spirit driving, Bunny hanging out of the cab window waving them on. The back of each vehicle was filled with rescued prisoners.

  “Don’t leave without us, you bastards!” yelled Skull, rushing toward the rearmost vehicle, already moving. He hopped in the back with the help of Buzz and an Eden who pulled him up. Larry lifted Shadow into the back, and then followed him.

  Reaper climbed up after them, and then looked around. “Where is everyone else?” she asked and no one answered. She turned on her radio. “This is Reaper, give me a SITREP.”

  A scratchy voice came back. “This is Livewire. I’m moving to the exfil route. We got infantry in company strength making their way up the mountain from the south. We’re trying to hold them off and fall back to the caves.”

  “Company strength? I knew this was one big trap!” said Reaper. “Do your best and maintain commo. We’ll figure out a link-up plan later. Good luck. Break break: anyone else on this channel?”

  No one answered right away. “Spooky, you there?”

  “I’m here in the lead truck.”

  “Why are these vehicles functioning, anyway?”

  “Old trucks, old technology, over-engineered. No computer chips, resistant to the EMP.”

  Disgustedly, she said, “And their tanks and AFVs are combat-shielded.”

  “Yes. No battle plan, et cetera, remember?”

  “No shit. Where are we headed?”

  “Flyboy is just up ahead with my family. We’ll link up and try to –”

  There came a high whine, and then an explosion between the vehicles. The rear truck tilted dangerously on its side before it slowly came crashing back down. Reaper held on tight, and when it righted itself, saw that a few of the Edens on that side of the vehicle were bleeding from stray shrapnel.

  Larry leaned over the side and looked down. “That was a tank round, near miss. We got at least one blown tire.”

  “No time to change it,” yelled Spirit from behind the wheel. “We’ll just have to drive on it and hope the rest hold.”

  “Get out of here,” Reaper heard Shortfuse say on the radio. “We’ll delay off until you get away.”

  “The hell you will,” she replied. “Exfil now, follow the trucks! That’s an order.”

  Looking out the back, she caught sight of a tank coming over the rise. It stopped and swiveled its gun toward the two trucks.

  “I got this,” said Hulk over the radio. A second later an antitank rocket leaped from the corner of the blockhouse, striking the tank’s front left track, which immediately began to unravel. “Mobility kill, lead tank,” he called.

  The tank’s turret turned in Hulk’s direction and fired its coaxial .50 caliber machine gun. Reaper saw the burst blast through the concrete, watched Hulk’s body recoil as he stumbled away, leaving a wide path of blood. He made it a few steps before falling.

  Behind the tank, two armored fighting vehicles deployed left and right, their cannons questing for targets.

  “Sorry, boss,” said Shortfuse. “You’ll never make it unless we slow them down.”

  Reaper saw Tarzan and Shortfuse running forward, tossing satchel charges under the nearest vehicles.

  “I’m dismounting to help,” said Hawkeye over the radio.

  “Me too,” said Bunny.

  “Forget it,” said Reaper, hating herself. “Support team, we need your help. Jim, can you provide cover fire?”

  Jim’s voice came back, breaking up. “Sorry, Jill. Derrick ordered us back. We got our hands full with all these Eden folks. I lost three men already and the rest of our people are shot up pretty bad.”

  “Let’s go,” said Spooky. “Shortfuse is right. It’s six miles to the airport rendezvous and we can’t do that with armored vehicles in hot pursuit.”

  “I knew this would happen, you asshole!” Reaper screamed and started to get down from the truck, but hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her back. She fought Skull and almost got one of her knives out, even as she spoke on the radio. “Hawkeye, Bunny, dismount and try to extract Shortfuse and Hulk. Get everyone out!”

  “Help me,” panted Skull, and Larry added his weight, pinning Reaper to the bed of the truck.

  Reaper screamed in frustration.

  Skull yelled into his radio. “Go, goddammit, if we’re going to go!”

  Spooky now driving, the lead truck shot forward, followed by the vehicle Reaper lay struggling in. She could hear the engines laboring as they climbed the slope of the hill’s road, eight wheels churning through deep, wet snow. “Get off me,” she snarled, and they let her up to aim her rifle futilely rearward, though Larry kept a grip on the back of her battle harness.

  Hawkeye and Bunny ran down the road, using the deep-churned tracks of the trucks. Through the falling snow, the two figures began to blur and fade, along with the rest of the scene. Reaper could see bright blooms of light and muffled sounds – the sharp staccato of cannon fire, the crack of rifles and hand grenades. Figures ran and fell. Their voices cried out in her headset.

  Tears of anger and frustration welled up in her eyes. “Shortfuse, come in! Hawkeye? Bunny? Hulk? SITREP, dammit!”

  Chapter 38

  For the three trucks – two plus the one that had gone on ahead with Spooky’s clan – a six-mile, fifteen-minute drive in good weather turned into a harrowing hour in the storm. On one steep section, Spooky’s truck started to slide back down the hill toward a cliff. Flyboy drove forward and crashed his vehicle into the back, enough to stop the slide. After that, they had inched upward in the lowest gear possible.

  Visibility almost nil, the Edens huddled together for warmth in the uncovered backs of the trucks, wet snow piling up on them. Reaper sat alone and stared off into space. Larry tried to talk to her, but Skull told him to just leave her alone.

  At the top of the last hill they found an unpaved landing strip beside a few buildings. Spooky drove down the middle of the runway, unable to see more than fifty yards. For a moment he feared that the plane was not there, but then he spotted the lights on the wingtips and the shadowy outline of a fuselage.

  A four-engined C-130J Super Hercules transport aircraft with extra fuel pods sat at the downwind end of the runway, engines idling. Figures sprayed de-icer from hoses attached to a tanker-trailer that had obviously been unloaded from the plane itself.

  Spooky raced forward and pulled around to the back of the aircraft as the tail ramp rapidly lowered. He jumped out and greeted the thin figure waiting, a man with neck tattoos barely visible above his winter parka.

  “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” Python told him.

  “We had some complications,” Spooky said. “Might have some company on our trail soon. How quickly can we get out of here?”

  “Soon as you load up. Weather’s only getting worse.” He looked up at the shivering Edens.

  Spooky saw Reaper’s eyes light up as she spotted Python, watched as
she jumped down and embraced her sometime lover. He wondered if the two even realized how he used them to manipulate each other. In this case, their connection ensured maximum motivation for Python to be here with the plane to complete the mission.

  The Nguyens and the others climbed down from the beds of the trucks and made their way into the back of the cargo plane. Python freed himself from Reaper with a smile and yelled, “Pack in forward, tight! Fill every seat!”

  A man in a flight suit made his way from the front of the aircraft and tugged on Python’s sleeve. He made a cutting motion in front of his throat and yelled, “Winds are gusting at ninety knots and visibility is almost nil. We’re grounded.”

  “Come on now,” said Python with an easy smile. “This is why I pay you. If anyone could do it I’d hire a cheaper pilot.”

  “This isn’t about money,” the pilot said. “We try to take off in this and we’re going to end up dead.”

  Spooky stepped forward to give the pilot his best, deadliest stare. “Our options are rather limited at this point. No doubt the enemy is only a few minutes behind us. You either get this plane off the ground or we all go back to that death camp we just left.”

  “It’s not a choice,” said the pilot. “It’s impossible. No one can fly in this.”

  Suddenly the man was pinned against the side of the plane, Spooky’s hand wrapped around his throat. The pilot struggled but couldn’t break free, despite outweighing the Degar by fifty pounds. “Perhaps I should explain your situation. You get in the cockpit and get us airborne or you die right here.”

  “Did someone say fly?” Flyboy asked, coming up to break the tableau. “I can fly.”

  Spooky let the pilot loose.

  The man rubbed his neck and stepped away from Spooky. “Not in this. You feel those wind gusts?”

  Flyboy nodded. “Sure. Nothing to it.” He held out his hand. “Headset.”

  “You’re insane,” the pilot said, passing over his headset.

  “Can you really fly this thing?” Reaper asked Flyboy.

  Flyboy’s face showed hurt. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

  “Nothing like working with professionals,” said Skull.

  “Yeah, I miss this,” answered Larry.

  “Shut up, you son of a bitch,” said Reaper to Larry, putting her hand on her knife. “You weren’t part of the plan. We’d have been long gone if we hadn’t had to take down that blockhouse and break you out. Five good people are probably dead because of you. I hope to hell it turns out to be worth it.”

  Larry’s smile disappeared and he nodded. “Got it. Sorry.”

  “I’m not,” said Skull.

  “That’s because you’re just as sick as Spooky,” Reaper snarled.

  “Ooh, now that stings.”

  Larry laid a hand on Skull’s arm and dragged him effortlessly toward the plane. “Sorry again, miss. Skull uses humor as a defense. He don’t mean no disrespect.”

  Spooky touched Reaper, causing her to jump. “Feud later. Fly now.”

  The propellers began to speed up. The two were the last aboard, and the ramp lifted off the ground, but didn’t close yet.

  The plane started to roll. With no more seats, Reaper, Spooky and Python were forced to stand on the inside of the ramp. Many of the Edens lay flat on the airplane floor in exhaustion.

  ***

  Reaper instinctively ran a mental checklist and felt a stab of pain. Shortfuse and Tarzan had stayed at the camp with Hulk, whom she’d seen fall. Bunny and Hawkeye had gone back. Stitch and Spirit were here. She might see Livewire again, if he made it to the caves. Buzz?

  “Where’s Buzz?” she yelled.

  “There he is,” said Spooky pointing out over the open ramp to the man making his way from around behind the back of the trucks.

  “Idiot. Come on!” yelled Reaper waving him forward.

  He ran and leapt onto the ramp as the C-130 gathered speed. The man was shaking and pale.

  “You almost got left behind,” Reaper said.

  Without the slightest warning, Buzz pulled his pistol and pointed it at Spooky’s head, pulling the trigger, and then he turned to leap off.

  Spooky jerked backward and fell atop Python, bleeding.

  “What the hell?” said Reaper, grappling Buzz, preventing him from exiting the ramp.

  He punched her in the face with his free hand and fired another shot into Spooky.

  She scrabbled for her knife.

  He pointed the pistol at Reaper’s head.

  She ducked instinctively and let go.

  With an inarticulate guttural, Python rushed Buzz.

  Buzz turned his pistol and shot the thin man in the face, punching a hole out the back of his head, spraying blood and brains onto the inner wall of the moving airplane.

  Reaper lunged, driving her knife into Buzz’s kidney, a textbook attack. He spasmed, paralyzed by the pain.

  She heard the hammering of an assault rifle. A cluster of bullets slammed into the man, turning his torso into hamburger, and he slumped and slid off the ramp, leaving Reaper to stand, stunned, knife in hand.

  Python!

  Before she’d wiped off her blade and put it away, she knew Python’s cause was hopeless. His open, staring eyes held no life. Crouching, she picked up his limp hand and held it to her cheek.

  The plane’s speed increased. Around her, the team held onto cargo nettings and each other as the plane’s nose lifted and the powerful engines dragged it into the leaden sky. Gusts buffeted them, shoving the aircraft left and right, dropping it suddenly like a carnival ride.

  Below them, they could see armored vehicles cresting the hill. Searchlights pierced the increasing darkness, probing for the aircraft, but they failed to find it.

  Skull slung his assault rifle and slammed his hand against a button aft of the left paratroop door. With a pneumatic whine, the ramp closed, leaving them in sudden peace, surrounded only by the muffled roar of the engines and the airflow over the plane. “What the hell was that?” he said to her.

  Reaper forced herself to speak. “Some kind of traitor or mole. We had our suspicions, but no proof, and he never did anything overt.”

  “Until just now, when he put two into Spooky. Don’t worry, though. I punched his ticket.”

  “Spooky.” Reaper sat up suddenly and looked for the little man. She saw Stitch patching him up. The medic gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Guess I’ll get some rack time,” said Skull.

  “You do that.”

  “Need anything?”

  “Go away, Skull.”

  A moment later she felt him drape a blanket around her shoulders. She sat unmoving on the ramp with the flesh that had been Python, and allowed herself to mourn.

  Chapter 39

  Director Sturgeon sat in his Tudor home in Chevy Chase, Maryland and tried not to grin. Doing so might ruin his gravitas, the aura of power he was cultivating in anticipation of his new position.

  A car would be arriving shortly to take him to the Oval Office. There, he and the President would discuss plans for announcing his appointment as the next Vice President and getting his confirmation through the Congress.

  Normally he’d have driven himself, but not today. Sturgeon didn’t relish trying to navigate the snow and ice of the Snowpocalypse. D.C. drivers were notoriously bad, even in the best of times, and the news showed hundreds of crashes, from fender-benders to fatalities.

  Besides, he deserved the luxury of being served.

  “Vice President of the United States,” he said aloud to the empty room, relishing the sound of it. “Vice President Sturgeon. Mister Vice President. How do you do? Pleased to meet you. You’re too kind. Yes, it’s an unexpected honor and I hope I can do it justice.”

  The President wouldn’t want to rush the announcement, but in this time of uncertainty he couldn’t wait too long either. It was only this morning they’d found Prudence Layfield dead in her bed. Evidently the poor woman suffered a heart attack. Sh
e’d reportedly been under an immense amount of stress. Everyone said that they remembered her fondly. She’d be sorely missed. A truly beautiful and wonderful woman.

  Sturgeon chuckled at the thought. Layfield had been hated, despised and feared. It amused him how everyone talked so nicely now they were safe from her. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead.

  At least, not in public.

  The President would, of course, be pleased by the way Sturgeon handled the matter. He’d suborned a member of Layfield’s household staff, a woman with Eden relatives, terrified of losing her job – or worse – because of the taint. He’d handed her an envelope stuffed with cash to sweeten the deal, along with a vial of an odorless, colorless, non-traceable substance to put into Layfield’s evening tea. Cardiac arrest soon followed.

  “If we’re lucky we’ll all go as quickly,” he murmured, still talking to himself.

  The cash itself had been infected with Eden Plague, carried via a short-term, volatile contact solution. One anonymous tip and the SS had picked up the poisoner on the way home, before she had a chance to spend any money: just one more for the camps.

  No one would believe the ravings of an Eden anyway. Those sickos would say anything.

  Sturgeon reached for the remote and turned up the television. It was time for the special address to the nation. The talking heads stopped their blathering and switched to the White House Press Room, where the corps of reporters rose at the arrival of the President.

  “Good afternoon. I want to thank everyone in this room for braving the weather to come out today. I have spoken to the governors of Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia, all of which are declaring states of emergency and activating the National Guard. I would like to urge people to stay safe indoors, and I pledge my personal support to the people of those states.”

  Brenner looked down at his notes and paused as if dreading his next words.

  Oh, he’s good, thought Sturgeon.

  “As I’m sure you have all heard, Vice President Prudence Layfield died of a heart attack late last night or early this morning. She was fifty-one years old, and not married. As everyone who knew her will tell you, she was a wonderful woman and the perfect Vice President. She will be missed. As soon as we’ve worked out details, my Director of Communications will announce the date of the funeral.