by Justin Bell
Helicopter rotors grew louder as they spoke, and Broderick turned to look toward the sky.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
Felding nodded, moving up next to him. “Is it the Blackhawk?”
Against the darkened night sky and amid the thick clouds of smoke, nobody could clearly see the helicopter, but the sounds of the blades came louder and longer, the source of the noise clearly moving toward them.
Felding yanked the radio from her vest again and thumbed the call button. “Blackhawk, this is Team Ten, please respond! Butch, are you there? Come back!”
A burst of static belted from the radio, words trying to claw through the scratching background noise. Felding narrowed her eyes, listening for any kind of translatable word or turn of phrase, but couldn’t make out anything. In the sky, the rotor noise grew, the rapid thumping of helicopter blades growing closer.
“It’s coming in over those buildings!” shouted Smith, pointing up to a row of taller buildings a couple blocks north from where they stood. “I can hear it!”
Felding kept barking into the radio, but heard no response, the roaring helicopter getting closer. Davis looked up into the sky, keeping his weapon raised and Broderick peered over him, the vague shape of the aircraft starting to solidify behind the cloud cover. The nose dipped as it started to move forward, then the rotors rattled, a large series of clanks reverberating over the stale, cool air of night. As they watched, the Blackhawk burst free from thick smoke as if breaking away from a tight, choking embrace, and plummeted earthwards, out of the smoke and behind the row of buildings ahead.
“No!” shouted Broderick, taking a step forward, as if he’d be able to charge and catch the Blackhawk before it hit the ground.
Then it did hit the ground, a thundering, metal crunch bang, rotors whipping and clacking and echoing as they spun and dug at pavement, chopped at buildings, then splintered and spun away into the night. One last clap of helicopter fuel thunder bellowed from behind the rows of structures, a wave of heat plowing forward and Team Ten just stood there in shocked silence as orange flame licked up from where the helicopter went down.
“No,” hissed Broderick again, lower and quieter.
“Don’t just stand there, Team Ten!” shouted Davis. “Move! Get to the crash site! Go go go!” He charged forward, breaking into a loping sprint, running as well as he could in thick protective gear, his limbs pumping within the bright material, his breath coming in synthetic, metallic hisses through the filtration system over his face. The others came up behind him, running as fast as they could, moving forward, slipping in narrow alleys between buildings, the sounds of the sirens faded deep in the distance. Fire roared from the street ahead, flooding the surrounding area in an abrasive yellow light, a strobe of waving, fire-licked fingers, as if greeting the people charging in its direction.
Davis pulled up short, slowing his run, seeing the blackened and shattered form that used to be a Blackhawk helicopter laying on its side, the tail half buried in a beaten down brick building, rotors hacked and cloven halfway down their broad strokes. Fire surrounded the vehicle, wrapping its yellow and orange appendages around the crashed aircraft as if gripping it and holding it pinned to the concrete.
The sergeant hesitated there for a moment, his legs tensing, his entire body preparing to lunge forward, to charge toward the flaming wreckage.
“Davis, don’t!” shouted Broderick jogging to a stop behind him, holding him.
Davis whipped around, slapping his hand away. “Let me go you spineless coward!”
“That is uncalled for, Sergeant!”
“So is you letting potentially infected people run all over the city! Now Butch’s death is meaningless! So is the Major’s! All of it. It means nothing because of you!”
“Sergeant Davis, I understand this is an emotional time and because of that, I am willing to overlook this gross insubordination. But I strongly suggest you take a moment to gather yourself.”
Davis torqued his waist and threw a fist in a straight line, smashing his knuckles into the filtered mask over Broderick’s face. The filter twisted and snapped, breaking off from the mask and spinning away, cartwheeling, end over end before landing on the street.
The entirety of Team Ten halted, everyone frozen in place, eyes locked on the pair of men, glaring at each other. Broderick’s breath came out in twisted heaves, a tangled mix of filtered and unfiltered air.
“Davis… what have you done?” asked Felding.
Davis turned toward her. “He doesn’t seem worried about what’s going on in the city. About people who are supposedly infected. Let him prove it.”
Broderick clenched both fists, staring at the sergeant, the entire world swirling around him. Suddenly and unexpectedly he caught a swift breath of smoky air and wondered how long it would be before he was coughing it back out.
***
“Did you hear that?” shouted Clark as he turned and looked around the corner of the building they were slinking past. “What was that?”
“I heard a helicopter, I thought,” Jackson replied. “Then the explosion.”
“Another crash?”
“Sure sounded like it. What should we do?”
From the opposite direction, motorcycle engines revved and screamed, a whole group of them seemingly charging down the street toward them. Clark spun back around again and saw the pale glow of headlights splashing across a far wall on the other side of a perpendicular alley a block and a half away.
“Down here!” he shouted. “Seems like those bikes have been following us. Let’s throw them off.”
Jackson nodded and moved forward, angling left around the corner in tight pursuit of Clark’s run through the alley. Almost immediately upon entering the darkened passage, he saw the slumped form of a body on the ground, face up, arms spread wide as if trying to fly. Clark dodged its splayed legs and kept going, the sound of flickering flame just up ahead. All around them, mixed with the crackle of fires, the dull roar of motorcycles continued to swarm.
“You don’t think it’s those two guys from the apartment, do you?” Jackson asked as they juked, then lurched left down a side alley.
“There were three bikes at the side of the road,” Clark replied. “I didn’t even think of that.” He picked up his pace to try to match Jackson, but his legs were silently screaming, and he felt his lungs struggling to gasp at infrequent breaths. “If it is them, it sounds like they have some friends!”
“You all right?” Jackson asked, whirling around. Clark was moving, but a bit slower than before.
“I’m just fine, crossfit. Worry about your own self!”
Jackson smirked and continued moving behind the building to his right, hearing the scuffing footfalls of Clark just behind him. Motorcycle engines roared and revved, and Jackson felt like they were right behind them, then the splash of light filled the alley, silhouetting them in shadow on a far building. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and turned again, seeing that Clark was withdrawing the pistol from his holster as he brought it to bear on a series of headlights in the distance, glaring at them with blinding, dead eyes.
“Come on, Clark!” Jackson shouted, taking a step toward him. His eyes blinked hard against the bright white light of the bikes. Clark looked forward, a scowl on his round, angry face.
“I said don’t you worry about me, kid! Just keep moving. I’ve been handling myself for over fifty years!” Clark drew a ragged breath as he ran and charged forward, picking up speed, the motorcycles falling into a single file line, hurtling into the alley behind them. They ran, legs pumping, the sound of engines and scattering trash blasting shortly behind them, the gunning engines of the vehicles growing loud and nearly deafening within the tight confines of the alley. Jackson could see the wall up ahead, the broad, flat structure of a building scattered with darkened windows, what looked like some kind of low income housing, the brick work alternating between graffiti artwork and gaps where chunks of the wall had fallen away
. It looked so far, too far, but he knew that the alley widened before that building, a wide, vacant lot that stretched north and south. If they could make it to the end of this narrow passage between tall buildings, they might just be able to find a way out of this.
His thought tried to grab purchase, a plan trying to form, but his head was swarmed with the background noise of screaming engines, crunching cardboard and the clatter of flying garbage as the bikes tore up the alley just behind them.
Jackson fought the urge to look back and check on Clark, instead just running forward, letting his backpack slide down his extended arm, and loop around his grasping fingers. Bunching the straps, he pulled the bag to him, trying to get ready in case he had to make a stand with the shotgun. Clark’s feet slapped on the ground just behind him, and even underneath the throttling engines of their pursuers he could have sworn he heard the uneven gasps of breath from his new friend.
“Just up ahead!” he shouted. “Dive right! Dive right!”
The corner of the building to his right appeared, a solid brick angle, and Jackson torqued, bolting off to the right. Clark saw him vanish around the wall and made the same motion, just barely clearing the corner as the line of motorcycles screamed behind them, throwing whipping paper and tumbling cardboard in their wake. Already the bikes were slamming on brakes, squealing on hard asphalt and coming around, headlights sweeping across the surrounding walls. Jackson stumbled to his knees as he tried to run forward, warm air blasting him from ahead, the bright fingers of orange fire twisting in the breeze. As he fell, his eyes glimpsed a strange sight, a broken and smashed shape enveloped in a curtain of bright flame, flames nearly as bright as the uniforms worn by the small group of soldiers standing, baking in the glow of the hot fire. They all wore strange, insectile gas masks and turned in unison as he and Clark thumped on the pavement and the motorcycles screamed to a halt behind them.
Jackson looked up at them all, his breath catching in his lungs, then turned back toward the bikes, seeing the men there for the first time, barely visible behind the glow of their headlights. Next to him, Clark tried to scramble upright, and a tense, thick silence enveloped the immediate area, the only sound the gentle licking of fire and crackle of spent ash.
***
“There! They’re right there!” Ricky shouted over the low rumble of motorcycle engines, extending his arm and stabbing a thick finger toward the shifting shadows moving toward the alley.
“Are you sure that’s them?” asked Javitz. He stood on the seat of his bike, both booted feet pressed into the asphalt, his hands clutching the grips on the handlebars. He twisted and revved the engine lightly as he squinted his eyes at the moving figures.
“I’m sure!” Ricky said, resting his hand on the red body of the Harley Davidson which used to belong to Tony. He turned toward Dave. “That’s them, right? Looks like them!”
Dave nodded. “I’m with Ricky.”
Javitz shrugged. “All right then, let’s chase ‘em down!” He cranked the engine again, pulling his feet from the road and sending his own Gold Wing charging forward, tires clutching at the rough pavement. Behind him, the other bikes fell into a rough single file line and they followed the two men into the mouth of the narrow alley. Javitz snarled, lowering himself to the handlebars, seeing them several yards ahead, but they had broken into a run, so he accelerated lightly, his front tire thumping on empty cardboard and discarded trash. He kept the bike fast, but not too fast. He wanted to put a little fear of God into them before running them down. Motorcycle engines tore at the walls around him, swallowing the entire world in their growling throttle. It was one of the best sounds there was in life, when all of your problems were consumed by the roar of the engines, the feeling of wind in your face.
The wind in Javitz’s face was hot and smoky, the visor of his black helmet tilted up so he could better see in the low light of the passage between the two buildings. Caught in the pale splash of his headlight he could see the figures up ahead, running fast, he saw their shadows stitched onto the far wall of a building, an open area between the mouth of the alley and the brick, windowed wall just beyond. He decided it was time to do this.
Roaring the engine, he bolted forward, realizing that he was just a little too late as the shadowed figures lunged right, vanishing past the corner of the building, scrambling away from his wheels, sending him screaming past them toward the building ahead. Slamming on the hand brakes, he whipped the back wheel of the Gold Wing around into a screeching skid, scattering trash in wide arcs behind and beside him, seeing the other headlights punching from the alley as well. His cohorts followed his lead, bringing their motorcycles around, swinging into tight, skidding semi-circles until all eight of them sat side-by-side, lined up just west of the alley opening, their headlights bathing the dark vacant lot in a pale glow.
Javitz blinked against that pale glow, his vision clearing, and as the scene unfolded ahead of him, he saw the squat wall of fire stretching up toward the dark, smoke-filled sky, bracketing a group of yellow-uniformed soldiers, huddled together at the opposite end of the lot, all of them turning to look at them.
“What have we here?” Javitz asked himself as the soldiers turned, almost in unison. He looked over to the rest of his group who were standing atop their idling motorcycles, all starting to look back at him in curiosity, asking for guidance, wondering what they should be doing next.
“Weapons ready,” Javitz muttered, loud enough so they could hear him, low enough so the soldiers across the lot couldn’t. As he watched, the other men on motorcycles slowly withdrew their weapons, most of them pistols, though two of them carried Heckler and Koch UMP40 submachine guns. Javitz himself had an illegally obtained Bushmaster XM-15 Quick Release Carbine, which was currently loaded with an extended capacity magazine, and slid neatly into a tucked sleeve mounted to the bike body. Holding it across his body, Javitz glared over the handle bars of his Honda motorcycle, looking long and hard at the clutch of yellow-uniformed men across the way.
Something didn’t smell right about this whole situation. One of the men looked as if he had a broken gas mask, and the rest of them stood there, weapons slung across shoulders. He saw one of them, the one on the left, next to the one with the broken gas mask, flex slightly, wrapping fingers around his weapon with a subtle motion, starting to bring it up and around from where it had hung. A small motion. Slight, even, but with an innuendo of threat just underneath.
Javitz felt the threat from twenty yards away, and he let his fingers curl around the grip of the Bushmaster as well. Quiet tension hung in the air, thick as the smoke rolling through the city and Javitz held himself for a moment, wondering who would bring the knife out first.
***
Broderick had been in shock. A strange nowhere land, caught between the surprise of Davis’s action—the vast and steep incredulity of it—and trying to decide what an appropriate punishment would be. There would have to be punishment; he was the de facto Team Ten leader and their military liaison had just struck him.
But it went beyond that. He struck him and broke open the filtration system of his gas mask. Broderick stared at him, listening to the mixed rasp of his breath, one moment hissing, metallic, through the filter, the next moment a clean, quiet breath, smelling of smoke and tasting of burnt ash. Charcoal felt as if it were settling on his tongue, tiny shards of burning, cooling as they hit the plump muscle, but still the taste was there.
It tasted like death. Like slow and painful suffocation. Broderick coughed lightly, not because he felt as if he had to, but because instinct was telling him to, muscle memory was telling him that he had been safe and now he was not, and the only self-defense he had was to expunge whatever he had inhaled.
Coughing, short, quick barks, Broderick recovered quickly, glaring at Sergeant Davis who was showing no signs of regret or remorse.
“Corporal Felding,” Broderick hissed. “Sergeants Smith and Provlov. Take Sergeant Davis into custody.”
“Custo
dy?” Felding asked, unable to mask the surprise in her voice. “Custody where? We’re trapped in the city. We’ve got nowhere to go.”
He felt the anger then, the next obvious emotion after shock and surprise. It dug into him, deep in his guts, then rolled over, gathering larger like a particularly thick, wet snowball, building in size and intensity, and he could feel his face flush with heat, his eyes focused and narrow, fingers clenching together into fists. His rational brain told him trying to fight Sergeant Davis was the most ridiculous possible outcome of this confrontation, Davis would likely knock him out, if not kill him, and his ability to stay on top of the situation would be completely eliminated.
He couldn’t outfight him, he had to out-think him. Broderick’s lips parted underneath the filtration mask, words starting to form on his lips. The rage was so hot and furious inside of him that he didn’t even hear the commotion. The motorcycle engines were a vague piece of background noise compared to the intensity of his anger toward Sergeant Davis, an innocuous aspect of what was going on in the city, as ever-present as the heat of the fire behind them, but ultimately harmless.
Then he heard the muffled shouts of the two men, stumbling and scrambling from the mouth of the alley, and as he was snapped out of his angry haze he saw the motorcycles bolt from the opening, raging across the concrete, squealing to a halt, swinging around, headlights swarming over the walls and the ground and blasting them clear in the face, blinding them, causing them almost physical pain with the intensity of their white glow, and he stepped back momentarily, using a hand to shield his eyes, seeing only dark figures standing on the motorcycles perched behind the white blobs.
There were a few moments of tense silence, the motorcycle riders straddling their bikes, glaring at the men and women in their yellow military chemical gear, many sets of eyes bearing down on each other, wondering who was going to make the first move or say the wrong thing.
