by Reece Hinze
Dax only laughed in reply.
Cooper punched a button on the keypad of his exosuit’s arm. “Breaker, Foster, to me. Come through the library.” If Cooper was surprised at all by the massive armory, he didn’t show it. Instead he walked casually between the rows of pallets inspecting this and nodding at that.
Normally, communication between the suits is conducted from helmet to helmet but if your helmet is off, like Cooper’s was at the moment, or if it was damaged, a secondary communication system is located on the wrist control panel. A speaker on the Sergeant’s arm relayed his soldier’s reply.
“No can do Sarge.” James heard a nervous tone to the usually easy going Tupac Breaker. Large booms and screaming came through the open channel. “There are hundreds of plague carries out here. We had to retreat to the vehicles.”
Cooper immediately looked from James to Dax, uncertainty imperceptibly etched across his scarred face.
The old man picked up on Cooper’s anxiety. “I’ll keep him safe Old Chap,” Dax said, nodding his head towards James.
“Keep me safe from what?” James asked. “I’m already infected. What can they do to me?”
“They could rip your balls off and shove them up your arse if you like,” Dax said.
Cooper looked at the old man and frowned. “You may be one of them Captain Lasko, but you are one of us. According to… tests runs, that makes you friend to none and enemy to all.”
James said nothing.
“I will keep him safe,” Dax repeated.
Cooper glanced at the floor for a moment, as if examining the cement’s texture. In a moment, he had made his decision. His eyes fell on the old man. “He is the key to all of this, Dax. As his heart beats, so does humanity’s. He is the living cure.”
Dax said nothing but nodded.
Cooper punched his suit’s communications button. “Breaker, get Betsy rolling. I will join you topside momentarily.”
Sergeant Cooper Brickson snapped on his gunmetal grey helmet. A moment later the snarling red expression formed by the descending L.E.D. lights lit up turning man into towering metal warrior. As he walked past James the heavy concrete floor shook. He picked up a large sack and draped it over the cascading plates of his armored shoulder.
“You know, I haven’t met Betsy in person yet,” James said with a crooked grin.
“That’s because she isn’t a person, Captain.” That surprised James. “Betsy is a fully A.I. controlled Abrahams Two fighting platform. The first, and depending on if we succeed at stopping this plague or not, the last built of her kind. Ironically Captain, she’s responsible for both saving your life and…” He hesitated for a moment. “The horrific injury to your face.” His synthetic voice boomed through his helmet and throughout the room. James’ grin faded.
“Get the Captain to the A.P.C., Gladio 7,” Cooper ordered using Dax’s codename again. “He will only be safe once he is in his suit and his suit is still in the A.P.C. Breaker will take over once you reach the safety of the vehicle.” The big man walked aisle by aisle as he talked, picking up grenades and other explosives and stuffing them in his pouch like produce at a super market.
“It will be done,” Dax said gravely.
“Meanwhile, I will make my way to Betsy drawing the attention of as many of the plague carriers as I can.” Cooper stuffed one last explosive in his bag. He took a step towards the door but hesitated, his eyes falling on a huge black machine gun. His suit allowed him to shoulder it effortlessly. The big man turned towards his companions, the large belt of ammunition jingling. “I can attract a lot of attention.”
James couldn’t tell if Cooper was smiling underneath his snarling helmet but the man was certainly ready for combat. The gears on Cooper’s suit wined softly as he walked towards James. The hand he saw crush a man’s skull to pulp in the facility rested softly on his shoulder. “An apology is useless Captain, but together we can fix the awful harm that has come to this world. Stay safe, stay alive.” The Sergeant moved closer to him and whispered into his ear, a strange sound coming from the helmet’s normally booming voice synthesizer. “And trust no one.”
James turned to glance at the mysterious Dax Nicola who smiled warmly then back to Cooper who walked towards the big roll up garage door near the far wall and punched a panel to the right. The thick doors rolled up to reveal a dark cement ramp leading gradually upwards. Cooper looked back at James one last time before disappearing into the darkness.
“Now, old chap,” Dax said merrily. “Let’s go about our business. Shall we?” Dax turned and walked towards a row of vehicles at the far end of the room. “The Sergeant is right. You are only safe once you are inside that bloody suit. No matter how many of them are tearing and ripping at you, they cannot get to you in there.” James followed him for a few steps but stopped suddenly, picking up a weapon that lay carelessly on top of a pallet, shouldering the bag next to it, and hurrying after his new English friend.
Dax stopped at the far most vehicle in a row of combat machines that dominated the far end of the massive room. They passed Humvees, two and a half ton trucks, dune buggies, simple camouflaged suburbans and all manner of vehicles from all manners of the world’s militaries. James gaped when he saw the one Dax picked.
“You are full of surprises aren’t you Mr. Nicola?” James asked with a half-smile that looked more a grimace because of his burned face.
“Meet Delilah,” Dax said happily with his arms spread like he were showcasing an antique at an auction. “Six tons, seven point four liters, and twenty feet of high powered crushing action. The plague carriers outside can’t even reach her door and,” Dax pointed to the machine gun perched on top of the huge truck’s roof. “Even if they get close, you can mow them down like grass old boy.” Dax laughed, a deep British laugh that moved from down in his belly to erupt out of his flaring nostrils. The truck was massive thing. Like most of his vehicles, Dax had painted it O.D. green. Other than that distinction, and the massive machine gun mounted on the roof, the truck could have been one of the same ones crushing cars on a Saturday afternoon.
“Well, let’s get to it then,” James said, throwing his new weapon and bag into the back of the truck.
A moment later the beast of a truck roared out of the armory. Dax gunned it. The gigantic front tires flew into the air while the back skid against the cement as pure torque launched them. Terrified, James grasped onto the roof mounted machine gun for dear life.
“Yeehaw,” Dax screamed as they hit the ground. Sunlight flared as the truck emerged from the service tunnel into the middle of the golf course.
“You can’t say yeehaw!” James protested. His heart beat fiercely as he hung on.
“And why not, old boy?” Dax asked.
“Because you’re British!”
Dax laughed. “I’ve lived in Texas long enough for that and also to wear cowboy boots and ride bulls too,” the old man screamed. “I even bought a Chihuahua for my wife!” He yeehawed again and punched the gas. The engine roared while huge tires dug into the expensive, carefully manicured turf, mercilessly ruining the groundkeeper’s hard work. Dax launched the truck over a sand bunker. When the truck hit the ground they saw them.
Hundreds...
More like thousands. Big and small, men, women, and children, naked, clothed, snarling, screaming, flailing, running, drooling, red-eyed, bleeding monsters. The plague carriers crowded the fairway. The horde stretched all the way through the tree line on either side like a crowd following Tiger Woods on Master’s Sunday. In the middle of the herd, rocking back and forth with the surge of the inhumanity, the armored personnel carrier and the black tank “Betsy” stood like rocks breaking ocean waves.
“That’s where we need to go,” James shouted over the deafening din of the horde.
“Ready, old boy?” Dax asked from the driver’s seat.
James cocked the charging handle on the roof mounted machine gun. “Ready as I’ll ever…” he started but the big truck’s tires we
re already spinning. The engine roared and the truck bucked back on two wheels. They shot down a gentle slope picking up speed quickly. It wasn’t long before the massive black tires met flesh and bone. James screamed as he sprayed hot death at the countless faces. Spent shell casing rattled on the truck’s roof like heavy rain. The plague carriers were packed so tightly that not a bullet missed its mark. Blood sprayed into the air like geysers. The engine roared with the effort of running over so many bodies. Blood splattered the sides of the truck. Crushed and ruined bodies lay in its wake.
“There,” Lasko screamed, pointing to the edge of the trees. Three warriors clad in full exo-suits battled waves of angry attackers. Their weapons blazed, cutting a half circle into the surging crowd. Infected fell dead but as they hit the ground, more desperately crawled over the corpses to replace them. Their red eyes were desperately wide, crying bloody, angry tears.
“We kicked the hornet’s nest didn’t we old boy!” Dax laughed and turned the wheel.
James fired and fired ending life after life. Soon he had to lay off the carnage for fear of melting the glowing orange barrel. Dax was turning and weaving, leaving tire tracks of flattened corpses in his path. And then, out of the corner of his eye, James saw the barrel of the massive black tank turn. Betsy came to life and she did what she was born to do.
Kill.
A gigantic fireball erupted from her black barrel. The explosive round did not travel far because the infected were all around, screaming and thrashing and climbing. The shell exploded a couple of dozen yards from the tank spraying blood and body parts high into the sky. Red and orange fire mushroomed into the air while the concussion of the blast laid scores low, crushing bone and rupturing organs. James watched in awe as the battle tank sprang into action, rocketing forward at full speed. A light pop sounded. Eight tiny smoke trails spiraled outward from the tank. Soon after, the smoke exploded. White hot shrapnel shot out in all directions, faster than the speed of sound. Some metal hit the tank and pinged away harmlessly but no infected in a hundred foot radius of the tank stood. Piles of shredded flesh lay still on the ground. Blood watered the immaculate green fairway. Betsy fired her main gun again clearing a massive group near the men in the fighting suits.
Captain James Lasko was no stranger to battle. He had marched, fought, and killed but he had never witnessed soldiers go about their work with such deadly efficiency. The men ran at super human speed while fighting their way towards the A.P.C. Betsy circled. Dax was right behind her, cutting a wide swath into the infected herd but still more came. They surged from the trees and from down the course. Dax turned towards a great group of them.
Bodies littered the ground, obscuring a precarious sand bunker. Bone crunched as the big truck dove inside. Dax gunned the gas, desperately trying to free the truck of the trap but the slope was too much. The truck fell back on its tail gate hurling James to the ground. James thought, in those few moments before he hit the ground, he would surely die but he landed softly. When he opened his eyes, a mangled and flattened lump of meat, which had once been a face, greeted him with a twisted smile. The fall had knocked his breath away. He sucked for air, nearly retching because of the awful stench of the carnage and then he heard the roar of the big truck’s engine and was afraid it would fall back on top of him. Somehow the big tires pulled the truck over the hidden sand pit and soon it was gone, speeding to cut another swath through the infected crowd.
Big brown vultures circled overhead. James wondered if the carrion beasts would become infected after feasting on the flesh that littered the ground. Was this a human disease only or would all life on the planet cease to exist. He would have to ask Cooper when he saw him again. Suddenly, James’ far reaching thoughts came to a stop when a hand touched his shoulder. A fat man with his legs crushed and his huge stomach popped like a balloon, screamed and clawed at him, spending the last of his life’s blood in an effort to kill him. Raw adrenaline pulled James to his feet and then he saw them. People of all creeds and colors, tall and short, skinny and fat, screaming and running directly at him.
James crouched low in an effort to conceal himself, while he desperately scanned his surroundings. Laying a few feet away, cradled by a pair of severed arms like a sign from God (or the devil) was his fully loaded M-32 semi-automatic grenade launcher, carefully picked from Dax’s stockpile. James snatched it up and immediately let one fly at the charging crowd. Pieces of dirt and bone and gore splashed about him but still more came. James screamed.
Thump, thump, thump.
The explosive concussions boomed as James brought death to the golf course. Group after group came, seemingly materializing from the field of corpses. The Captain worked with a soldier’s instinct. Not thinking but reacting and surviving. A topless woman with mangled breasts and a swimsuit bottom screamed and charged him. James fired a round that lodged into her left eye before the shell exploded, utterly disintegrating her. The colorful swimsuit bottom, half on fire, gently fell to the ground like a drifting feather. If given more time, James would surely have remarked on the irony of killing such person but this was battle, and battle is hell. If your mind wonders from the task at hand, you will die.
And I will not die here. Not today.
He scanned for Dax’s truck but instead saw the warriors, clad in their futuristic exosuits, running at him with their astounding speed. Cooper led them, shaking off plague carriers like a running back shedding tacklers, the difference being Cooper’s mechanical stiff arm caved in faces and ripped limbs from bodies. The Sergeant, splattered in blood and gore, stopped short of the astonished James. His shout boomed from his helmet’s synthesizer. “Come on Captain. Follow us!”
Cooper and his men plowed their way to the A.P.C. with James following, trying his best to step around the mangled bodies the men left in their wake. He couldn’t help but wonder what people, if any survived the plague, would think about the future of warfare. His professors at the academy would be astounded by Cooper and his men. He would like take his suit there one day, if the place still existed. He pushed such thoughts from his mind for they arrived at the A.P.C.
“Where’s Dax?” James asked. Cooper’s red eyed helmet stared down at him without answering. He looked as if Rembrandt had used his suit as an exhibit, painting with blood. Half of someone’s nose hung limply from the giant’s right breathing apparatus. James scanned the golf course but saw no signs of the monster truck or the eccentric British man. James covered his ears as Betsy boomed again, clearing a large swath of the infected. Still more surged towards the vehicles.
“Get your suit on!” Cooper boomed.
“He’s not healthy enough to…” Breaker started.
“He’ll be dead if he doesn’t!”
Cooper didn’t need to tell James twice. He stepped into the back of the A.P.C. and slid his legs into the heavy gunmetal leg pieces. As soon as his skin tight biofiber suit came in contact with the exosuit, the enormously heavy legs felt as light as his own, moving effortlessly. The men outside mowed down plague carriers who escaped Betsy’s fire. The tank boomed again. James fastened on his torso and gauntlet pieces before reaching for his helmet.
“We need to get the hell out of here Sarge,” Breaker pleaded but Cooper ignored him, firing his red hot rifle stubbornly.
“Not without Gladio-7,” he roared.
Over the clamor of the battle, the distinct sound of helicopters cut through the air. James saw them approaching through the tail gate of the A.P.C. He slid the helmet on and twisted the locking mechanism at the neck, feeling the suit pressurize. Suddenly the horrific stench of the golf course battlefield disappeared, replaced by purified air.
Cooper saw them too. “Betsy, obtain a firing solution on those choppers. Hold your fire until I give the order!” James was curious at Cooper’s tone but as soon as he put his helmet on, he discovered why.
The helicopters were no friends of theirs.
James grabbed his M-32 grenade launcher and stepped out the door of the
A.P.C. When he looked at the helicopters through the helmet’s Heads Up Display, the on board computer categorized them instantly. A white box appeared around each of the three choppers while small text described what model aircraft and what armament they were expected to contain. Bold red letters underneath the aircraft read: HOSTILE. James believed his suit.
“Who are they?” James asked.
“Nobody good,” Breaker replied, looking into the sky. His voice sounded normal. The gravelly synthetic boom must be the voice emitted on the outside of the helmet only.
Suddenly, smoke plumes stretched out from the leading chopper to travel directly at them.
“Take cover!” Cooper roared. At the last moment, the missiles swerved to either side to decimate scores of infected. The explosion rocked James inside his suit. Bits of mud and grass and bone splattered against his armor. Next, the chopper’s twin rail guns opened up and in front of his eyes, the greatest slaughter of that bloody day took place. Person after screaming person were cut down like sheep to the slaughter. Two Apache attack helicopters, identified as such by the helmet’s computer, zoomed over the group’s head, spraying hot death while a third halted just ahead of them. Several more large explosions sounded on the course as the last group of infected were blown into oblivion. Soon the Apache’s circled again, holding position in the air, flanking either side of Cooper’s small band of soldiers.
Even though it displayed the name, James didn’t need his helmet’s readout to recognize the Blackhawk helicopter paused before them for he had been a passenger on one just like it many a time before. The chopper turned its great sides towards James and the other men before landing. The long rotor wash swept over the killing fields, blowing pieces of shredded clothing and detached limbs away. James’ suit must have sensed what he was thinking because the H.U.D. automatically zoomed in on the passengers.
Several men wearing exosuits, similar to the one he wore, jumped from the sides of the chopper at a distance that would cripple a normal soldier, to form a fighting perimeter around the craft. There, standing next to a gaunt, blank faced man wearing the cloth of the church, stood his tormentor. The very man who started this plague. The man who shot and tortured him. Captain James Lasko instinctively grabbed the shoulder where the bullet passed through. The chopper landed and a smiling Colonel Fennimore Devreaux stepped to the ground.
