ATLAS 3 (ATLAS Series Book 3)

by Isaac Hooke

  Too bad this wasn’t the movies.

  On the horizon, the Skull Ship continued its relentless approach, becoming bigger with every passing moment.

  TJ spotted the Korean-Chinese symbol for “port” on the ruined side of a building. The sign was blast-damaged and covered in soot, but the characters were recognizable enough.

  The squad proceeded down the indicated street. The building beside us appeared relatively intact above the resin that caked it, at least compared to the blast-damaged shells of the other structures. I spotted a towering skyscraper beyond that had likely acted as a blast shield, sparing this building and the adjacent one from the nuclear bombardment launched by the Brass last week.

  Gunfire erupted from up ahead.

  The eight of us immediately dropped behind the ash-covered resin that coated the nearest building, taking cover between the bulbous mounds.

  Bomb had been hit. I saw the blood dripping from his hand.

  He tore a piece of fabric from the lower section of his cool vents undergarment and wrapped it around his forearm. Luckily he hadn’t been hit with a sniper round. Without a jumpsuit, such a bullet would have blown his arm right off.

  Trace and Ghost directed their barrels past the edge of the resin and let off some shots.

  Ghost glanced askance. “Too many of them.”

  “Time for a tactical retrograde,” Facehopper said.

  But before Facehopper could assign a group to lay down covering fire, more shots rang out from behind. Another company of Centurions blocked our retreat vector.

  Pieces of resin broke away all around us as gunshots slammed into the area from both sides.

  We were pinned.

  “Bloody hell,” Facehopper said.

  I glanced upward, following the contour of the resin with my eyes. Where the black substance ended two stories above, I spotted a row of empty windows.

  “Facehopper.” I indicated the windows.

  He nodded. “Lead the way. TJ, go with him.”

  The two of us sprinted up the resin as my brothers laid down suppressive fire on either flank. Shots ricocheted from the black surface around me; I felt naked and defenseless without my jumpsuit.

  I reached the apex of the resin and dove through an open window; the glass had presumably melted away in the heat of last week’s nuclear strike.

  I landed in an ash-covered bedroom containing broken mattresses and toppled dressers. TJ piled in beside me and the two of us promptly got up and thrust our rifle barrels outside, adding to the covering fire while our comrades made their way up in twos.

  When everyone was inside, Trace calmly sat against one wall. He tore some cloth from the bedsheets and wrapped it around a fresh gunshot wound in his calf.

  “Everyone okay?” Facehopper said.

  Of course everybody said yes.

  We jogged through the ash toward the front of the apartment. Trace opened the front door, which used an old-style handle interface, gazed past the doorframe, and gave the all clear.

  We ran into the shared hallway.

  Two Centurions appeared at the end of the hall. Trace and Ghost took them down.

  Several more Centurions rounded the bend.

  “Back back back!” Facehopper said.

  The eight of us piled inside the foyer of the apartment we had just left as the gunshots rang out. TJ slammed the door behind him.

  “Get that door buttressed,” Facehopper said.

  My brothers piled furniture against the doorway.

  When it was done, Fret leaned momentarily against the wall of the foyer. Blood dripped from his hip. He didn’t say a word of complaint. It looked like a flesh wound, but, even so, when he met my gaze I could see the pain in his eyes.

  I blinked away a round of dizziness and started toward Fret. I wanted to help him dress his wound.

  Before I reached him a loud thud came from the direction of the front door.

  I exchanged a nervous glance with Facehopper.

  The thud came again; the furniture piled against the door shook.

  “To the bedroom, mates!” Facehopper said, wiping blood from one nostril.

  We retreated to the bedroom. Ghost went to the window, but immediately pulled back. Sniper fire from outside gouged the window frame.

  I heard the sound of shattering furniture behind us and I knew the front door had been breached. The ominous clank of steel feet echoed from the apartment hall outside.

  I helped stash the bedroom furniture against the doorway and window. Before we had finished, the Centurions began pounding away at the blockages. The piled objects shifted.

  “Guess we won’t be making the port after all,” Bomb said with a sickly, blood-soaked grin.

  “We’ll make it.” I directed my rifle toward the ceiling and began firing in full automatic mode. I swiveled the aim so that the bullets formed the outline of a circle in the plaster, which I traced again and again. I paused to untape a fresh clip from my torso and reloaded. That was my last clip.

  I fired again.

  A thick piece broke away above me and plunged to the floor, sending up a plume of radioactive ash. A ragged, manhole-sized opening remained in the ceiling.

  “Gotta love armor piercers,” I said.

  My brothers watched the two entrances to the bedroom as Facehopper and Bomb gave me a boost to the floor above. The furniture continued to shift under the blows of the Centurions.

  I heaved myself up through the hole and scrambled to my feet. I stood in another bedroom that looked identical to the one below, replete with ash and toppled furniture.

  I helped the other squad members through the opening as Bomb and Facehopper boosted them one by one. Facehopper went last, even though the LPO wasn’t supposed to put himself at risk. In the heat of the moment we’d somehow let him get away with it.

  Bomb and I reached down to grab him just as Centurions broke through the blocked doorway and stormed the bedroom.

  We hoisted Facehopper up, but not before a bullet got him in the foot.

  Facehopper gritted his teeth as I dragged him from the opening.

  Other squad members immediately dashed forward to seal the hole. Ghost and Trace slammed a mattress over the opening and the others began stacking furniture on top of that.

  Even without jetpacks, combat robots could easily jump that height. Unsurprisingly, thuds already erupted from the floor, and the heaped furniture shook.

  I heard gunfire; armor piercers thrust through the top of the furniture mound. Ghost took a glancing shot to the arm.

  We abandoned the room, dashing toward the front door.

  Facehopper let me act as his crutch. He seemed incapable of putting any pressure on his wounded foot. My own limp actually lessened in that moment: Knowing I had the LPO’s well-being in my hands helped distract me from the pain of the insect bites I’d suffered. We’d had our differences in the past, yes, but I refused to let him down in that moment. He was, in the end, my commanding officer. And my brother.

  The squad burst through the front door and into the shared hallway.

  It was clear.

  For now.

  We ran toward the stairwell. I kept expecting Centurions to emerge at any moment. Though it was only a short distance, mentally it was one of the longest runs of my life.

  We reached the doorway, and Bomb and Fret burst in first. Bomb went high; Fret low.

  “Clear!” Bomb shouted.

  As the rest of us hurried inside, I heard the metallic clank of robotic feet coming from below. We were forced to take the upward flight. I wished we had some grenades left to slow down our pursuers.

  Facehopper seemed heavier as I helped him surmount those stairs. He was definitely putting more of his weight on me. That, or I was already becoming exhausted.

  I forced myself to plow o
n.

  At the top of the stairwell, Bomb fired a breach round into the old-style door, breaking it open. He and Fret went first, high and low again.

  “Clear!”

  We poured onto the rooftop. The area was steeped in nuclear fallout.

  Facehopper quickly scanned the four edges of the roof. His gaze lingered on the southern quadrant, where another intact building resided in the shadow of the blast-damaged skyscraper. “This way!”

  I brought the wounded Facehopper to the southern edge. The rooftop of the adjacent building, a small hotel of some kind, was precariously linked to this one via a collapsed neon sign: the lattice-like framework provided a bridge.

  “Everyone, across. Go!” Facehopper said.

  Mauler set down the EM emitters so he could equip his rifle. Then he watched the stairwell through his scope. Ghost and Trace joined him, as did Facehopper and I.

  The other squad members began to hurry over the metal framework. The men moved in single file, balancing on the lower bars and using the uppermost ones for handholds.

  Centurions raced onto the rooftop from the stairwell. Those of us with standard-issue rifles fired in rapid bursts, taking them out. Ghost and Trace meanwhile released single shots from their sniper rifles with deadly accuracy.

  I was a little worried that combat robots might jet up the apartment and come at me from behind, but I knew my brothers crossing to the other building would watch my six.

  “Ghost, Trace, go!” Facehopper said.

  Our resident snipers obeyed as the rest of us continued covering the rear.

  Facehopper glanced at me. “I’m going to have to do this alone.”

  “You go first,” I told him. Then my weapon clicked.

  I thought for a moment that Facehopper was going to order me to go instead, but then he tossed me a clip.

  I bowed my head in thanks, and then reloaded to resume firing into the emerging Centurions.

  Beside me, Facehopper clambered to his feet with a savage grunt of pain. He hop-limped toward the metallic framework connecting the two buildings, wrapped both arms around the upper bars, and pulled himself along.

  I had to trust that he would make it; I concentrated on taking out the enemy with Mauler, wanting to do my best to ensure that Facehopper had the best chance.

  In a few moments the leading petty officer’s voice drifted to me. “I’m across!”

  I exhaled in relief and glanced over my shoulder. Facehopper had taken cover behind a superstructure on the opposite building. Near him, Ghost and Trace were providing suppressive fire from other positions.

  “Go!” I told Mauler as I continued to lay down cover fire.

  Mauler scooped up the two EM emitters and tucked them under one armpit, then hurried onto the lattice-like framework joining the buildings.

  From the corner of my eye I saw him suddenly spin backwards, likely from the momentum imparted by a powerful bullet strike. He landed on his back, dangerously balanced on one of the sign’s narrow metal beams, four stories above the street. The emitters lay across his chest.

  He didn’t get up.

  I turned fully toward Mauler and saw the blood pumping from his shoulder, darkening his cooling undergarment.

  “Mauler!” I was about to go to him when he finally stirred.

  “I’m all right,” he said, hauling himself up with one arm.

  I turned back toward the stairwell and fired rapidly, doing my best to cover him, well aware that I would soon exhaust my ammo.

  “I’m across!” Mauler called moments later from the opposite building.

  He was crouched behind the base of the toppled sign, where he had exchanged the emitters for his rifle once more. The rest of the squad remained in cover behind other superstructures, laying down suppressive fire.

  I might as well get this done.

  I slid the rifle strap over my shoulder, got up, ran to the edge, and leaped onto the metal framework spanning the two buildings. Occasionally latching onto the uppermost segments for balance, I sidestepped along the narrow lower bars. I didn’t look down, because I never really liked heights. Dropping from shuttles in orbit, jumpjetting across buildings, climbing collapsed metallic frameworks four stories high, those were things other MOTHs might enjoy, but not me.

  Gunfire whizzed past, coming from the stairwell and the streets. Dressed only in my cooling vest, I felt completely vulnerable up there.

  A stab of pain told me when a bullet struck the side of my neck. I felt the blood trickle down. That meant a glancing blow. If I’d felt a gush, on the other hand, I would have been in big trouble. Of course, a direct impact to the neck probably would have knocked me unconscious, if not killed me outright.

  Unfortunately more bullets struck shortly thereafter. One hit my upper back just above my right shoulder blade. Another lodged in my buttocks.

  They weren’t armor piercing rounds, luckily, otherwise the bullets would have passed clean through my unarmored flesh and sent my body reeling. The blast damage would have ruptured nearby bones and organs.

  I ignored the burning pain in my ass and upper back and crossed the rest of the way, pulling myself onto the opposite roof and ducking behind the base of the sign for cover.

  Mauler was there beside me and he lowered his rifle to look my way. “Man, what a mess.” He was staring at my neck. It probably seemed grisly.

  “Just a flesh wound,” I said.

  “Lucky son of a bitch.” He returned his attention to the Centurions on the adjacent building and let off a burst.

  I glanced at the Skull Ship in the distance. Beneath the radioactive black cloud that hovered over the city, Bogey 1 ate up nearly half the horizon by then. If we didn’t get out of there in the next thirty minutes, we were dead.

  “Tactical retrograde to the stairwell, mates!” Facehopper shouted.

  My brothers and I continued firing as we pulled back in turns toward the stairwell on the hotel rooftop. Despite the wound in his hip, Fret acted as Facehopper’s crutch this time. Trace couldn’t walk on his own anymore, either, so Ghost helped him.

  Bomb fired a breach round into the stairwell door and we piled inside. The sound of gunfire abated, replaced by the noise of our heavy footfalls as, battered and beaten, we made our way down. We kept our guns raised as we zigzagged from landing to landing: there could be a squad of combat robots waiting around every flight, and the other robots would soon be in pursuit from above.

  Just in front of me, Trace coughed up blood. Rad poisoning or lung injury? Either way, Ghost kept him propped up, despite the grisly gunshot wound in the albino’s own hip. Not only that but Ghost’s nose bled, as did his eyes of all things. I didn’t know what was getting him through this other than sheer will and adrenaline.

  I offered to take the Bengali off his hands but Ghost flat-out refused. “Don’t insult me, bro.”

  Sheer will, indeed.

  I concentrated on the stairwell, doing my best to ignore my own injuries. It wasn’t easy. Each step down brought with it fresh jolts of pain.

  We reached the closed doorway to the hotel lobby. The stairs continued down to the basement but Facehopper raised a fist, indicating a halt.

  Facehopper motioned me forward since I was the closest to the door at that point. I set my ear against the steel and listened.

  No sounds came from the lobby beyond. That meant one of two things. Behind the door awaited either an empty lobby, or a roomful of combat robots lying in ambush with their fully loaded rifles aimed squarely at the doorway.

  I glanced at Facehopper and shook my head, gesturing at my ear as if to say, “Didn’t hear a thing.”

  Facehopper gave the “back away from the door” hand signal. We did so, positioning ourselves at various points along the downward flight and out of the doorway’s line of fire.

  I glanced at the Korean-Chine
se symbols painted on the sloping ceiling just above the current run.

  “Facehopper,” I said quietly, yet urgently, nodding toward the symbols.

  “Pedway,” Facehopper said, interpreting the symbols. He sounded relieved. “Thank you, Tahoe.”

  “Why do we care if these stairs lead to the pedway?” Fret asked.

  I glanced at the tall man. “The entire downtown core of Shangde City is linked by the underground pedway system. It will lead us straight to the port.”

  “If the pedway is still intact, you mean,” Fret said. “We did just detonate two underground nukes . . .”

  I heard the muffled clang of metallic feet from beyond the closed door. Either the Centurions had just reached the lobby or they had grown tired of waiting for us. I also heard more footsteps coming down from the flights above.

  “Move, mates!” Facehopper said.

  We hurried down the stairs, limping and dragging each other along. Behind us the lobby door blew right off its hinges, judging from the sound. However, it was two flights from view by then so I couldn’t be sure. The echo of metallic feet resounding from the concrete walls told me all I needed to know.

  We reached the pedway system. Unlike in the stairwell, the emergency lights weren’t operational. We activated the lamps taped to our rifles and sprinted forward.

  Sections of the ceiling had collapsed, forcing us to slow in places as we picked our way past broken concrete and exposed rebar. Sometimes debris obscured the symbols labeling the street exits but eventually we always found the port symbol, if not at the current underground intersection, then the next one.

  Never far behind us, the metallic footfalls echoed from the walls in constant accompaniment, reminding us of our deadly pursuers.

  Finally we reached a wide concourse where half the roof had collapsed. On the far side, the port symbol was plastered above an unpowered escalator that led to the surface.