by James Tow
side of Paul’s face. A deep cut split his brow and followed down his eye line. His eyes are clamped shut, lips pulled back showing his grinding teeth, and panting heavily through his clenched jaw—his way to deal with the pain.
I bent down to help him up when the soldier to my right jerked up. His AK-47 assault rifle was pointing at my face. He then smiled which was followed by a gunshot. Brains of the dead soldier spread across the wall. I look over my shoulder to see the blonde inmate several feet down the hall, still pointing Federov’s gun at the corpse.
I help Paul to his feet.
“I was supposed to save you…I really fucked that up.” He said this smiling.
“Well, thanks. But now, we gotta get the hell out of here.” I told him.
“I know of a way out,” Blondie told us while moving toward the elevator.
We tagged along with the stranger toward the elevator after stripping the soldiers of their weapons.
“Did you just get back from slaughtering a pig?” Paul asked, sarcastically, while pointing at the blood stains covering my face and body.
“You could say that,” I replied. “Federov’s dead.”
“DudeNoWay!”
“What?”
“Is he seriously dead?”
I nodded to confirm, and all he replied was, “Sweet.”
Celebrating aside, I had to focus on getting us out of this prison. I don’t trust the blonde inmate, but on the other hand I don’t have a choice but to follow. We made it to the elevator, AK-47’s tucked in their shoulders leading them while the blade was held tight in my right hand leading me. We made it to the elevator and Blondie hit the ‘down’ button.
“So what’s your name friend?” Paul asked the inmate.
“Vergil,” he replied.
The doors opened and we stepped in the small mobile box, one at a time. Vergil turned left and reached for ‘B3’ on the panel of buttons lying in front of him, but Paul quickly grabbed his wrist.
Paul answered Vergil’s serious gaze, “We need level three, not the sub-levels.” Paul punched the ‘L3’ button and turned to explain, “Alyse explained to us our escape route, and where to find the bird for extraction.”
“Alyse?” I asked.
“The brown-haired Scottish hottie who is running this shindig,” he answered before continuing. “I don’t know if you saw, but Seventh-Gate is made up of three structures: the main building, the watchtower, and the hangar. The east side of the main building is attached to the roof of the hangar via connecting bridge. We have to make it to the east side of the hangar where a group of motorcycles are stationed. From there, we get our asses to the runway.”
We made it to level three. Judging by time interval from getting on and off the elevator we must have still been in the sub-levels when we entered the lift—my mind was still on the fritz since I couldn’t process how we were still in the sub-levels. I could have sworn we climbed more stairs.
Paul led the way running through the half-open elevator doors with Vergil behind him and me running caboose. This floor is no different from the others: concrete walls with the occasional metal doors. The first hall was short, only leaving us with a right turn which Paul took. The next hall we faced must have reached across the other end of the building, but a quarter of the way down Paul took another right. We were in a dead sprint, closing the gap between us and metal wall.
This metal wall had two electronic panels on each side. Reaching the barricade first, Paul reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a card. He shifted to the right panel and slid the card into a slot, and the metal wall began to move.
Splitting down the middle, the great wall began retracting into the concrete. The damn thing moved too slowly. Why the hell can’t people make automatic doors that open fast enough so they don’t stop me whilst I’m walking? About twenty seconds elapsed before Paul proceeded through the half-open doors.
We jogged down the connecting bridge which sloped downward, leaving my legs feeling awkward against the concrete flooring. Though, I am grateful for the change in scenery, leaving my legs unnoticed. The connecting bridge has massive glass pane windows down the side walls and the ceiling, showing the stunning landscape. The sun is still covered by the dark clouds, leaving the flora a beautiful dark green. Structures can be seen in the distance to my right. They look like castles. We must be somewhere in Europe for to my left was a vast amount of ocean.
We made it to the metal wall’s twin, and Paul repeated the process. I didn’t think it was possible, but the doors opened slower. After thirty seconds or so, we squeezed through the open slot sprinting down the hall we faced. This hall followed the perimeter of the hangar on the utmost level. Glass blocked the inner hangar from the hall so everything remained visible. The hangar, and its contents, was destroyed. The ground level was scattered with debris and bodies. An enormous amount of smoke was emitted from the fires from pieces of equipment which made it difficult to see.
“The hangar was the first target of ambush. It houses most of the soldiers here on post, in its sub-levels.” Paul called back.
We reached the metal door set inside the wall. Paul slid his card in the right side panel and the door flew open in a flash. That’s more like it. The breeze rushed into my face, through my hair, and around my body. I stood there for an eternity staring at the cloud cluttered sun. And I heard her voice.
“Shit!” Paul shouted, breaking me from my reverie, leaving me disappointed, “Looks like we have to jump.”
Vergil already jumped before I proceeded through the doorway. We are at least forty feet high. The metal staircase, that used to hug the building, now lay collapsed on the grassy ground. Further down, along the hangar, was an asphalt slab home to four motorcycles.
I threw the blade to the ground, Paul threw his rifle, and we jumped at the same time. I’ve made more impressive jumps, and my technique hasn’t failed yet. Keep the legs bent, arms stiff and ready in front, land on the balls of your feet, lean forward and let your arms brace the impact, and finally make a complete forward-roll popping up on your feet. I should have shared this with Paul before we jumped. The thud of his back on the ground sounded painful, knocking the wind out of him. He tossed and turned in the spot he lay whilst moaning and groaning. No time for this. I grabbed the front of his BDU’s and pulled him to his feet and immediately his legs buckled under his weight.
“We don’t have time for this! Get your ass up!” I yelled as I pulled him to his feet again. With difficulty, he managed to follow Vergil and me to the group of motorcycles. I don’t know the first things about bikes, except how to ride them—throw your leg over; turn the key whilst holding the clutch, gear is by my left foot, gas on my right hand. I learned on a small dirt-bike…it was ugly. The first time, I ended on my back with the seat of the machine in my crotch. But I got better. Still nowhere near as good as Paul when it comes to controlling the beasts of vehicles.
The motorcycles looked standard as far as I could tell, complete with luggage on both sides of the back wheel. We made it to the assembly of camouflage painted Russian motorcycles, and I realized we don’t have keys. Again, Paul and I are on the same page.
“Uh, I forgot the whole concept of ‘needing a key to start it.’” Paul said as he walked up to a bike.
“There’s a secret pocket inside the right luggage. They should be in there.” Vergil confirmed. We all searched for the pocket, and sure enough, the keys were present.
Paul held his key up, as if examining a diamond through some light, before sliding it into the ignition, “Well would you look at that. You’re a life saver Vergil.” He exclaimed.
I was unable to conceive how Vergil held this kind of information, especially for an inmate of Seventh-Gate. I just don’t trust the bastard.
“I heard a few guards mention it before,” he answered as if reading my mind.
Our bikes roared to life and Vergil and I followed Paul through a series of trees on a thin dirt trail. The trip was, so far, two minutes of me f
ollowing Vergil and Paul through the gauzy forest. The runway can be seen through the trees at this point. As well as a CH-47F helicopter, its rotary engines already at full speed. Four people ran into the Chinook and it lifted off. We were too late. When we were clear of the forest Paul spun his back wheel sideways to halt his advance. Vergil and I followed suit, and found his reason for cessation. Two Russian Tigers were attempting to reach the Chinook, soldiers jutting out of windows and the roof’s hatch firing on the chopper. Members of St. Andrews returned fire from the helicopter.
We watched the chasing firefight from our halted positions thinking ‘we should be on that chopper.’ A dark, unfortunate, figure fell about thirty feet from the back of the Chinook. Immediately after a crunching meeting with the runway the man struggled to stand to his feet. I guess pedestrians don’t have the right away on a runway as the lead Tiger plowed into the limp figure. The brutality of the sight was confirmed by Paul’s ‘ahhh shit that’s nasty!’
The AC-130U gunship, from earlier, flew overhead. It tilted, pointing its left wing downward, and opened fire upon the Tigers. The 40mm shots were followed by one 105mm shot, replacing the Tigers position with an impressive explosion. The heat of the blasts warmed my face and body. A bit unnecessary, but effective for one Tiger lay on its roof and the other performing forward rolls, both engulfed in flames.
“So much for an escape,” Vergil pointed out.
“Alyse told me they were stationed in Gatwick, London. Worst-case scenario, we were to head that way if something like this happened.” Paul said.
“Are we supposed to do what they want? I mean they did leave us. Plus, how do we manage to get to London? We’re maybe a hundred and fifty miles out. You think we can make it there before they leave?” Vergil pointed out. We must be in Wales.
Paul answered my concentrated look, “We are in Cardiff, Wales.” Ah, Cardiff. I’ve been here several times; I’m not amazed I haven’t recognized it. Nobody recognizes anything anymore.
He continued, “He’s right, we’re too far away.”
“No. We can make it.” I told them. I felt their gazes as I brought the bike to life. “The red dragon will lead the way.”
6. Relaxation
It was like riding in my dad’s old Cadillac. The train’s smooth sailing left me unbelievably at ease. I was a little concerned on the condition of the trains after seeing the devastated state of the Cardiff Central Railway Station, but the trains were satisfactory. The cabin we stayed in wasn’t anywhere near immaculate, but it was cozy. It was the same throughout: four gray chairs, two facing each other, to a thin foldable table, small air conditioning units overhead just under the luggage compartments, and a pair of television sets, next to the windows, facing each pair of seats. The seats were thick and malleable with headrests that wrap around the sides of your head. Perfect for sleeping—just what I need.
Paul sat in the same group of chairs as me, sitting at a window seat, opposite to myself. He found it necessary to keep me awake with random babbling. I threw my feet onto the chair next to Paul, and glanced at Vergil. He sat down a set of chairs, facing me, and on the opposite side of the dark blue carpeted aisle. It made me nervous, knowing he could stare at me while I try to sleep. I decided to stay vigilant for the time being, and I realized Paul had many unanswered questions I had floating through my mind.
“So Paul,” I said to grab his attention, “how did you survive that Javelin missile back in the desert? I thought they got you man.”
He looked at me in mock disbelief and with a grin on his face, “Psh, you need more faith in me brother, but that’s what they shot at me?”
“Yeah. Saw them shoot it.” I confirmed.
“Well, the guy chasing me wasn’t too good behind the wheel. So I took a sharp turn in the trail, leaving a blind spot, so they couldn’t see me, and I jumped out of the Tiger. A couple seconds later the Javelin, or whatever, blew it up and the other Tiger pulled behind the rubble of my truck about twenty feet away.” Paul looked up, squinting his eyes, trying to re-live the moment.
He then continued, “Three soldiers piled out of the Tiger, running toward mine, with one watching their vehicle. I snuck up on the soldier, standing outside the passenger door of their Tiger, and took him out. Thank God I was already wearing their uniform because there was no way in hell I’d pull this off with me having to take this guy’s clothes. I buried his body in the small sand dune they parked by...” He paused and started giggling before continuing, “I did a horrible job burying this guy too. You should’ve seen it. His lower legs were sticking out the sand dune as if he were a meteorite and flew in head first.” He stopped his tittering, “Anyways, I took the dead guys place and we took you to Seventh-Gate.”
“By the way, you really messed those guys up,” he laughed as he imitated my right hook and I nodded with a smile.
It took a bit for this information to sink in. “So you blended in with the Russians?” I asked.
He started laughing again, “Kind of. I laughed when they laughed, used the bathroom when they did, ate when they ate. I was a sheep. It was a pretty nerve racking experience. I lasted till right before the St. Andrew’s attack started. I was hanging out with the usual crowd in the mess hall when I momentarily broke character. One of the Russian soldiers slipped and busted his ass. We all laughed, and for some reason I decided to stand up, point and yell ‘Oh my God, that’s hilarious!’ They all stopped and stared. I slowly tried to walk out of there, but they found it necessary to detain me. Unfortunately for me, they were right in doing so.” He stopped then shook his head.
“So what did you do when you were compromised?” I pondered out loud.
“They marked me a prisoner and kept a close eye on me. That’s when you came around. I was hoping Alyse would’ve showed up earlier to get me out of that mess. She was the one who walked me through everything most of the charade. She confronted me several hours after showing up at the prison…she picked up on me being an imposter much quicker than the soldiers did.” He looked out the window. “She’s something else man.” He started snickering again. “I’ll tell yah, we sort of hit-it-off. She’s smart, gorgeous, has a sexy little accent, and she’s quite the firecracker.”
“Oh I know. She was holding her own back there during the fire-fights. I was a little worried at first, but I’m proud of her.” I acknowledged this with a huge smile on my face.
“Alyse,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” I said puzzled.
“No you didn’t, you said her name…I haven’t heard you say that name in a long time,” he confirmed. I glanced at Paul and he was gazing at me through furrowed brows. What the hell is his problem? And what the hell is he talking about?
Vergil brought our attention to him, “how did they manage to infiltrate the base in the first place?” He annoys me every time he talks, and for him to ask the question I was to ask next annoyed the hell out of me.
Paul thought about this, “Well to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure myself. It’s obvious they wanted to destroy the place. And I know it took them about a month to infiltrate and rise in the ranks among prison guards. I guess only the privileged few and highest of ranks have access to all aspects of the prison. They needed that to control the watch tower, have access to the depths of the hangar, and of course have access to the prisoner’s fates.” He slouched in his seat, closing his eyes, and sighed, “A lot of people still died.” I imagined all the tired faces again and wondered how many were executed since that prison has been up?
Paul noted after several long seconds, trying to dislodge any other questions we may have, “They sabotaged the hangar first, placing large explosives throughout the sub-levels. They needed the watch tower so their plane wouldn’t be spotted and shot down. And the C-130…”
“AC-130U,” I corrected him.
“Yeah, whatever, but it provided the air-support and the fire power for the most part. They planned on doing all this in a fortnight, but whe
n they found out that they captured you they decided to act,” he said with a grin.
“You boys must have a lot of fans out there,” Vergil called out.
“Shut up bitch,” I blurted out, and had no idea where it came from.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Paul said with his hands up, “when in Rome Gabriel.”
Vergil was laughing, annoying me further.
“So what happens to be your problem?” He said looking out the window.
“I don’t trust you.” I replied.
“What reason has he given you to not trust him?” Paul asked with sincerity. Vergil got up from his seat and moved slowly down the aisle toward me. I had my bolo blade in the seat next to me, ready to reach for it. He stopped, inches away, and said with a mocking voice.
“Yeah man, why don’t you trust me?”
In the calmest voice I could muster I replied. “Let’s see, everything you’ve said or done has been a bit suspicious; like your constant knowledge of the prison: where to find the keys to the motorcycles, the location of the prison, et cetera. How it took you a few seconds just to say your name when Paul asked for it. Is that even your real name? Vergil? And you have to admit, the state in which I found you seemed a bit suspicious—standing there holding a pants-less Federov by the collar of his shirt.” Paul flinched at this and I proceeded with the enlightening, “your curiosity in the faction who infiltrated your precious Seventh-Gate prison. Did it hurt to shoot your own soldier in the hallway?”
He scoffed, “It sounds like you have a theory on who I might be.”
“A theory, yes.”
“Oh c’mon Gabriel, he was an inmate back there. He suffered as the other prisoners did.” Paul argued.
“Yeah, about that,” I said now rising to my feet while looking at Vergil.
“Your little façade doesn’t fool me. But let me ask you this: where exactly were you going to lead us when we got off that elevator on sub-level three?”
Vergil just stood there smiling his mocking smile, and he nudged me with his right shoulder like a child trying to start a fight. I brought my right hand back and slapped him, simultaneously grabbing the blade with my left. Blood started flowing from his nose and in between his fingers as he held his hand up to his face.
“Jesus Gabriel! Calm the fuck down!” Paul yelled as he stood up. Vergil took a few steps back and scoffed.
“A slap? Are you a woman?”
I could only smile, “What an outrageous accusation. But no, you just don’t deserve to be hit like a real man. So I slapped you like the little bitch that you are.”
Paul got between us, “Let’s just chill, alright?”
Vergil wiped his nose again and smiled at the sight of his blood.
“Don’t blink Mr. Reed.”
I feel the anger rising. The
