by Roger Hayden
Her eyes stayed on the hundreds of strangers coming right at her. In a mass of sweaty bodies, they moved like a tsunami, charging down the road, over the tops of cars and shoving the outliers into building walls, making them splash against concrete and glass and get lost in the shuffle.
James pulled his chest back in. “We’re good.”
Though still obscured by a pink, milky swirl, the windshield was again mostly transparent. She pulled into reverse. A gun’s barrel caught her eye. A bloodied man with a cut forehead and nasty face grabbed ahold of the window frame. “Open the door!” His spit rained on Harper.
In an instant, Harper floored the gas. The man’s shoes slid against the concrete. He tried using his gun hand to get a better grip but wasn’t prepared for the speed. One by one, his fingers plucked from the frame until he was gone. His body bounced and rolled down the street. Harper heaved. Every hard breath reminded her of her injured rib. James and Eli were silent. The crowd faded from view.
Golden sky turned amber.
Time was running out.
Harper swerved through a nest of bent metal and fire. Her eyes were drawn to a 2004 Toyota Tacoma still parked where she’d put it this morning. Next to it, her workplace. Her calling. Commander McCulloch’s reserve center.
Fire consumed a large portion of the building, but that didn’t deter the bystanders scurrying out the front door and across the street with boxes of MREs and water bottles.
Private Walker fired a few warning shots into the sky. The scavengers swiftly hid away. Harper tried to remain optimistic for Lieutenant Grant and others that came to mind, but the positivity felt disingenuous. As with the city, Harper’s world crumpled. James put a hand on her shoulder, and she knew she needed to press on. Painfully, she withdrew from the place where she once found purpose. The spire-like Washington Monument peeked into view.
The smoke from the National Mall dwindled into scrawny swirls of white smoke. Around the White House, the National Guard staked their camp. Long lines of armored vehicles and armed men faced off against a mass of people. Shouting words of discord and sowing seeds of rebellion, a youthful man with a blue bandana and a faded jean jacket rallied the crowd. Harper couldn’t hear the man’s voice as she inched by on a street that paralleled New York Avenue. Regardless, she could guess. The Guard’s protecting the president, not the people. Not our homes. Not our families. Harper frowned. We have families, too. A sickening feeling rose within her. This was what McCulloch was talking about. The head protester looked normal enough, but his purpose was far more sinister.
Depleted tear-gas canisters crushed beneath her Humvee’s wheels. She rolled around bodies and cars that were scattered on the looted street.
“Do you think we’ll ever recover from this?” Eli asked. His eyes followed the line of shops and buildings with broken windows, the corpses of the trampled, and the never-ending piles of trashed cars and goods that stretched as far as the eye could see.
“America’s strong. Its wounds will heal… It’s only a question of time.” Harper looked both ways at a crosswalk. The soft rumble of an engine drummed in her ears. In a khaki-colored blur, two trucks sped by on a distant road. “Something we can’t afford to waste.”
The machine kicked into gear and raced down the sullied streets.
James pulled his head back into the window. “How are those trucks still running?”
“Older models. Pre-1980, remember? Don’t have the relay on the same electronic parts. Long story short, the EMP doesn’t hit them as hard.”
“Are they friendly?” asked Eli.
Harper moved up to H Street then to Pennsylvania Avenue. The pair of trucks moved united and fiercely. Black turrets were firmly placed in the bed manned by raggedly dressed gunners in Kevlar.
“Those guys… They’re coming right at us!” James shouted.
Heart pounding, Harper caught quick snapshots of their ever-gaining progress between buildings and intersections. They sped up, making her speed. The gunner twisted the turret her way. The black barrel looked her in the eye. With a swift rotation of the steering wheel, Harper veered onto a side street and quickly avoided a flaming car and bags of trash. Her wheels screamed and munched the blowing debris. Ash and paper rained down on her windshield. Some of the charred snowflakes drizzled into the gunner station and entered the vortex of twisting wind inside.
“Walker, get that gun ready!”
“Yes, Sergeant!” the private shouted back.
“James, Eli, keep your heads low.”
The father and son exchanged worried looks that quickly dissolved into determination. They ducked low, putting their trust in Harper.
Fire to her right. Looters to the left. Above, black smoke stained the amber sky. One moment, her eyes caught the blur of her competition. The next… nothing. James kept the bottom of the gun’s stock resting on his lap, while the tip of the barrel protruded from the window. Eli rested his gun across his thighs, his eyes curiously scanning the surroundings.
The city grew quiet.
Harper slowed as she entered Washington Circle. Traffic clogged the street, so she rolled over the large circle of dirt and grass. The cluttered overpass of Route 29 appeared in her sight.
“Sergeant!”
Walker didn’t need to explain. The two trucks appeared out of a side street and rushed toward the Humvee. The gunners on the back screamed something and took aim. Harper slammed her accelerator as bullets cut through the air and pelted the Humvee’s sides.
“Open fire!” Harper commanded and sent the Humvee screaming through the grass.
Mean, rapid blasts of Walker’s machine gun sawed through the nearby trees, missing the trucks by inches.
The opposing gunners sent a volley of gunfire back. Holes exploded over the copper statue of George Washington in the green circle’s middle as Harper drove around it. The second truck diverged to her left. As it curved around a skinny tree, the gunner rained hell on Harper. The sergeant took a swift turn, kicking up thick patches of grass and sending the Humvee drifting.
Walker sent a cluster of bullets through the first truck’s driver’s-side window. A splash of blood hit the inner windshield, and the truck smashed into a parked dump truck. The turret gunner went flying over the truck’s roof with a bloodcurdling scream. The crown of his head slapped the dump truck’s frame. Like a ragdoll, his body flopped to the ground.
The second truck gained on Harper. Walker and the gunner traded fire while Harper veered to the right and left, dodging the bullets with her unpredictable motion. When the truck tapped her brake light, Harper’s Humvee spun out of control. She clenched the steering wheel as the world swirled around her. Shell casings from Walker’s gun hopped down the windshield as he kept shooting. Within a moment, the Hummer stopped. Harper turned her head, spotting the truck driving parallel to her left. The gunner took aim.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
He collapsed into the bed of the truck, sending the turret’s barrel and bullets to the clouds. The driver, a man in a ski mask, set the truck into reverse. Before he could get far, bullets obliterated the glass and turned his head to pulp.
Harper checked on James, who was firmly grabbing his armrests. Eli held the assault rifle.
“Private Walker?” Harper shouted up the gunner station.
“A-All clear, Sergeant,” Walker replied before vomiting out the side of the Humvee.
James looked at his trembling hands. The blood had left his face. “Can we go?”
Harper nodded. She gave the trucks a final look, waiting for someone to crawl out of them. No one.
Her tires screamed, and then she shot up Pennsylvania Avenue. Charging through M Street, her Humvee rattled along, with the supplies and people within. Pain returned to Harper’s feeble flesh and damaged bones. Francis Scott Key Bridge came into view. Hundreds of mothers, fathers, and children crowded the lengthy bridge. They toted suitcases, backpacks, and duffels. On the sides of the bridge, both the National Guard and army dire
cted people away from the scene. A tattooed man violently punched a soldier and was quickly brought down by the fists of three more.
James leaned forward in his seat, engrossed by the scene. “Holy hell. I can see why they need supplies.”
Harper rubbed the cold sweat from her face and gulped. The Humvee slowed, crushing an abandoned teddy bear. She exchanged looks with her passengers before inching her way into the civilians. Sweaty, with sunken eyes, the mass of people parted noisily as she rode through. Young and old, dozens of faces peered inside, all sharing the same look.
Eli extended an arm between the driver and passenger seat. Hesitant, Harper took the handgun from his grip and stowed it beside her. She hoped earnestly she wouldn’t need it, but thoughts of the last mob made her cringe.
The National Guard noticed her arrival. With gestures, whistles, and commands, they expedited the process of clearing civilians away from the nearing barricade. The ocean of people parted reluctantly and curled around Harper’s vehicle. A child smeared her handprint on Harper’s window as the mother raising her begged entrance. A man shouted to the others, telling them to leave the army alone. About a third of the way up the bridge, the National Guard had set up a checkpoint with metal barricades and Hummers. Using traffic batons, a soldier directed Harper through as more soldiers parted the metal barricade.
Once she was past, they closed it.
Night ate away at the daylight. Harper pulled to a stop and turned her head back to James and Eli. A smile broke her tired expression. A knock rattled the door. Harper turned to a familiar face. Under a furrowed brow and wrinkled forehead, Lieutenant Grant’s eyes went wide. Harper opened the door, and Grant gave her room to step out.
“I thought you didn’t make it, sir…”
Grant grunted. “Yeah, the bastards hit us. We took ’em down.” He peered into the Humvee. “What do you got in there apart from civvies?”
“Weapons, medical supplies, rations, and ammo all directly from Riverdale, sir.”
Grant reared back his head at the two dozen soldiers manning the bridge. “Let’s get some hands on this! I want this junk out of here and in its designated locales!” He turned to Harper. “Take a break, Sergeant. Get some water. You earned it.”
“Yes, sir.” Harper saluted.
James, Eli, and Walker jumped out of the Humvee. Harper grabbed water bottles from a nearby stack and tossed one to each. James and Eli downed theirs in a single go and chuckled, claiming themselves to be the faster drinker.
“You can’t beat me, son.”
“Psh. All right, old man.”
They grabbed two more bottles and drank them down, water spilling down their chins. When Eli finished first, James splashed him with the remainder of his drink. The teenager laughed and threw his bottle at James.
Watching the boys play, Harper grinned and took a swig. Every sip was like pure manna, but the regenerative property slowly died. The bridge behind them ended at salvation, but Harper’s eyes traveled to the city from whence they came. Fire burned into the early evening. The crowd of people struggled to fully evacuate the bridge. She stopped mid-drink and let her bottle-holding hand fall to her side. “Private Walker.”
The young private poured water on his head, causing it to run down his stubby ginger hair and freckled face. He shook off the water like a wet dog and shifted his attention to Harper. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Do you have family outside of the city?”
“Yes, Sergeant. My grandmother.”
Harper smiled as she watched James rubbing his hand in Eli’s shaggy hair, telling him he needed to get a haircut.
“How would you like to see your grandmother?”
Confused, the private looked back at her, and she explained to him what would happen next. Harper returned to the Humvee and handed tin ammo boxes off to the soldiers around her. She wiped the sweat from her brow. Something in the distance made her squint. She crawled up the gunner station to get a better view. A dozen moving lights appeared on Canal Road where it intersected with Francis Scott Key. Another dozen moved from Whitehurst Freeway, which connected to the bridge from the other side. The sergeant’s heart skipped a beat as she saw more lights driving headlong down Thirty-Fifth Street, which merged onto the bridge.
Old 1970s Chevy and Ford trucks. Two dozen of them steamrolling toward innocent bystanders from three different angles.
10
End of the Line
Harper yelled at the top of her lungs. The soldiers drew their attention to her and her extending arm pointing at the attackers. She cocked the turret, but it was for naught. The hundreds of civilians being led away from the bridge watched in confusion as the trucks sped toward them at unrelenting speeds. Before the soldiers at the foot of the bridge could process what was happening, the massacre had begun. Headlights, gunfire, and screams lit up the night sky as the insurgent turret gunners opened fire into the mass of people.
The National Guard and army looked out in horror as the good citizens of DC were buzz-sawed by the vehicles plowing through the crowd. A terrifying choice came to Harper as she watched the howling people stampede away from the trucks and to the army’s barricade. No time to think, Harper acted.
“Get the gate open!” she commanded all who would listen.
In a perfect death-squad formation, the trucks drove parallel with each other on the six lanes, herding the civilians forward like cattle to the slaughter. Men, women, and children flung themselves from the bridge, sending up a bombastic splash of water upon the hard impact with the rushing Potomac. Others attempted to rush past the trucks but were quickly gunned down. Harper aimed the machine gun, but she only saw businessmen, office workers, the homeless, mothers, fathers, and children running her way.
“Open the gate!”
James and Eli darted to the metal bars that made up the barricade. As they tried pulling, Grant shouted at them. “Keep it closed, damn it! Ignore Sergeant Murphy! We can’t lose this line!”
Soldiers took a knee and aimed at the barricade. Some hurried into Humvees and up into the gunner station.
The truck gunners spit bullets into the crowd as they sprinted to the barricade.
“What are you doing? Open the gate!” Harper pleaded, watching the massacre unfold before her.
No one pushed the gate.
Harper could not believe what was happening. Finally, the gate barricade split as James pulled a large chunk of metal fencing back his way. Grant yanked at him, but it was too late. Droves of people spilled through the crack and forced their way past James. The soldiers on the ground dispersed to the edges of the bridge. Civilians brushed past them and down the other side of the bridge. Then the trucks came into view.
“Die.” Harper pulled the trigger. The M60 smacked against her shoulder with every massive bullet it slung from its barrel. In an upward line, the piercing projectiles danced up one of the truck’s hoods, ripped through the windshield, and shredded the gunner standing in the truck’s bed. The other five trucks directed their aim at the army. Utter chaos ensued as soldier and pedestrian melded together on the six-lane bridge. For a better tactical view, soldiers climbed up the sides of Humvees and fired their rifles at the attackers. Civilians ran by them like rushing water.
Harper ducked as a bullet hit her turret guard, leaving behind a white dent. She peeked her head up, pulled the trigger, and sent another line of bullets horizontally across all the trucks. The bullets ran straight across the windshield of one, cutting through the cab and hitting the turret gunner’s torso on the other side. Harper’s string of bullets continued across the next two trucks’ engines, hit someone in the cab of the following truck, and took out the gunner on the final truck. With short controlled bursts, the other soldiers laid down fire on the bulky vehicles as they rolled forward. A bullet snagged an engine at just the right spot and… BOOM!
A truck erupted into a ball of fire. Its frame shot ten feet up and crashed onto the bridge like a falling star. The next two trucks also
exploded. Metal and bodies were tossed in all directions following a wave of heat. The final truck was set ablaze and steamrolled straight through the barricade. Before anyone could act, the flaming mass smashed into a parked Humvee. On fire, the truck driver screamed and fell out the door. He twisted a few times before falling to the concrete.
Fire, dismemberment, and cries of agony were all around. The night obstructed Harper’s vision. She couldn’t see her husband or son. She cried out, but there was no response. Shot, bleeding, and exhausted, people continued limping through the barricade. Finally, Harper spotted James huddled down at the upper corner of the barricade. She was about to duck out of the gunner station, when a rumbling growl filled the air. More trucks inbound. Harper took up the turret again and fired until the recoil made her arms go numb. Her shoulder pounded with pain, and the heat from the gun seared her skin. The trucks before her twisted and swerved to dodge the bullets, but dead bodies hindered their speed and maneuverability. Some of their drivers were even forced to stop and shoot.
Bullets broke glass, metal, and the enemy’s skin. Compared to the M60’s massive rounds, the insurgents’ puny vests didn’t stand a chance. Harper’s world became one of noise and bullets and death. It was only her and her targets. Any second could be her last, she knew, as countless bullets burrowed into the side of her Humvee and turret guard, but she did not relent. She would not let death have her. Her family, her soldiers, her country needed her. Like a strobe light, muzzle flashes lit up her hardened face with every shot. She felt alone in her battle, but her barrage of bullets was joined by others, and she knew that her allies were still with her.
Trucks veered into the side of the bridge, leaving long stripes of black paint on the bridge’s fence. Others reversed and jammed their wheels on the heaps of dead bodies. The cry of their engines and the sinister squish of the rubber against flesh sounded as they tried to remove themselves from the meaty piles. Every moment she watched, more bile clawed at Harper’s throat. Her turret put a quick end to the drivers.
