I tried to skip it but you said no.
And don’t even try to pin finishing chapter 15 on me. That was all you, chief.
And the S-20 really didn’t look like a Transformer. Just saying.
Chapter 16
(Continued)
I pulled my assault rifle around, switching it to frag mode and leveling down. “Alright, Jericho… You wanted adventure? This is about as adventuresome as you’re going to get, buddy.”
Aiming at the crumbling street right behind the S-20, because, you know, Chloe happened to be right in front of it and that seemed the best place at the time, I took a deep breath before launching my first grenade.
Concrete flew in all directions as the frag exploded on impact, causing the mammoth S-20 to rock on is mammoth legs a bit, which was all Chloe needed.
In a split second she was soaring into the air, cutting a double front flip before landing on top of the mech’s dome head. Well, it wasn’t really a head, per sey. The body of S-20 was made to resemble a human figure all but where there should have been a head there was a dome-like area where the pilot sat, peering out at the world through the God-knows-how-thick bullet proof glass, the touchscreen buttons, switches and gadgets on the said glass visible and backwards for anyone who found themselves unfortunate enough to see the pilot fingering out commands of death on the tinted dome touchscreen.
Unless it happened to be Chloe Sparks, someone who happened to know the S-20’s sweet spot.
Drawing back a curled steel-clad fist, Chloe delivered the blow of all blows directly in the center of the dome before crawling quickly to the rocking S-20’s top and leaping on the other side, crossing her arms over her chest and slipping through the hole my frag had created in the street and disappearing below into what I was guessing was the sewer.
The pilot had by this time regained somewhat of the S-20’s composure and started looking around for his two missing targets.
I frowned. Shouldn’t Chloe’s awesome fist bump of doom, I don’t know, broke the glass shield? Or at least have cracked it? I’m not a picky person most of the time so I would’ve been thrilled with at least a scratch, or something.
Then it happened.
The dome started cracking from the center, spreading out slowly at first before the veins picked up speed and the entire dome was one big shatter.
I’m going to take a shot in the dark here and say that I’m pretty sure that the dude in the pilot seat couldn’t see a dang thing. Partly because it looked that way and partly because the panicking pilot began spinning the S-20 in a complete 360, swiveling it at the waist while firing wildly with his humongous gatling guns.
Let’s not forget that Chloe was baby-blanket safe under the street while I, who was not, had to leap thirty feet backward to avoid being cut in half by bullets as they made their way to my rooftop due to the crazy carousel of death.
“Jericho,” Chloe’s voice buzzed in my helmet.
“Yes, dearest?” I cooed, darting quickly to my right to avoid more of the bullets that cut through the building beneath me like butter. My only inclinations of the approaching waves of hot lead were the visible slices that sped toward me. “Can he see?”
“No.” Chloe confirmed, “But he knows that we won’t attack while he’s firing like a maniac.”
“So what’s the plan, Stan?” I asked, again having to dart out of the way of yet more bullets. “And, please, take your time. I actually enjoy being buffeted by near-death experience after near-death experience so that makes you the real victim, here. Just FYI.”
“The glass dome is weakened. All it needs is one of your grenades.” Chloe said, “Can you get close enough?”
“If I wanted to die, yes, I’d say getting close enough to pop off a grenade or two wouldn’t be too hard. But news flash-“ I rolled out of the way of another bullet wave, “-I don’t!”
“Listen to me, Jericho-" Chloe screamed, her lecture cut short as I heard a huge groaning sound. “It’s coming through the street. Do it now, Jericho!”
Without thinking I sprinted to the end of the building, “Get away from it,” I shouted, performing the best swan dive imaginable off the side of the twelve story building. Or it would have been a swan dive had my arms been spread out in serenity instead of wielding an assault rifle, which I brandished in mid-dive, soaring directly over the S-20.
I literally felt bullets cut through the air all around me as I aimed below at the maniacal mech, “Cheers, homeslice,” I screamed, firing my grenade.
You know, it’s funny, I’d seen this maneuver done in a movie once. I’ve also fantasized about doing this maneuver in my wildest nerd dreams. But I got to say that the landing (you know, that thing that happens after you leap from a bullet-ridden twelve story building) was never part of my fantasies.
After that day, I knew why. Because when you jump off a twelve story building, no matter how drenched with bodacity whatever you do in the air is, there isn’t really a way to land that’s not riddled with pain and sorrow.
I got to hand it to whoever made the S-16, though. Those things can take a beating.
Ha. I fooled you so bad.
What? Did you actually think I was going to splat on the pavement and die? Psh. Not hardly.
My elegant/awesome dive kept going after I launched my frag and didn’t stop until I crashed through the sixth story window of the opposite building, landing hard on my armored stomach and skidding almost twenty feet before stopping when my helmet connected with the leg of a coffee table.
I don’t really remember the words I said as I climbed to my hands and knees. Just as well because it was probably something wimpy like, “It hurts so freakin' bad!”
I was inside the building for a total of literally five seconds when I felt the explosion. The floor shook beneath me before the entire room collapsed and I fell through two stories before stopping on what I was guessing was the third or fourth floor of the crumbling building.
Hoping Chloe was well away from the S-20 when it went kaboom would have been on my mind just then had not, after I got to my feet again, the building started to teeter.
It’s really hard to explain the feeling of being inside of a collapsing building so here’s my best analogy--it’s like being inside of a large wooden box falling into an active volcano and scraping along the walls all the way down.
Got a good mental pic now? Good. Now throw me, the hero of this tale, in the same mental pic yelling, sweating and running in crazy slow-motion toward the nearest window as the pitch of the floor rises more and more until I’m running up and almost vertical surface by the time I break through the icy glass.
I didn’t really fly through like Superman so, while you got that mental pic still rolling around in your little noggin, picture me, screaming like a banshee and running on the now almost horizontal brick wall of the building and not quite making it to the bottom when it finally touches down.
For some crazy reason- Yeah, I know, right? How was I not able to be thinking straight right at that moment? And yes, that was sarcasm- I ended up being right over another window when the building landed and before I knew it, I was back inside the building on a grungy couch looking up at the brick wall falling onto me.
Ouch.
Ouch more to situation than the actual feeling ‘cause it felt like I was being dog-piled by six year-olds more than buried alive by tons of bricks.
Thank you, S-16, I love you.
Chapter 17
It took Chloe a whole entire twenty seconds to remove enough rubble for me to poke a hand out and another twenty to actually pull me out. “Are you injured?” She asked, pulling me to my knees.
My heart was racing, my mind was buzzing and my body felt drenched in sweat. But other than that I could still see and I didn’t feel like I was about to puke too bad so I was guessing I wasn’t about to die. “I’m good,” I told her, climbing to my shaky feet. “Haven’t been forcibly removed from a forty story building that fast since Beyonce’s house pa
rty.”
Removing my helmet so I could breathe easier, I found a spot in what was left of the apartment and sat down. I ran a metal glove through my soaking hair, spitting out the bile that had started working its way up my throat about halfway between buildings in my no-armed swan-dive.
“You okay?” I asked, glancing at her as she removed her helmet, letting her hair, which, might I point out in annoyance, looked extremely dry, shiny and positively daisy fresh, tumble down as she did so.
“It’ll take more than one S-20 piloted by an inexperienced Fascist to kill me.” She stated with confidence.
“I would’ve settled for you at least breaking a sweat.” I muttered, “So that means the Fascists control Flagstaff?”
Chloe, who didn’t have to sit down to regain her composure like me, took this time to reload her assault rifle. “Not at all. Neither the Bears or Fascists have control of Flagstaff and both parties would rather keep it that way since it’s occupied by the Reds and is completely neutral in the war.”
“And thus can sell the weapons no doubt being created here to both sides,” I finished.
Chloe smiled at me as she cocked her rifle. “Just so. Since it would cost more time and men to seize the city for both sides than to just buy what they need, the Reds are left to their own devices.”
“Not to mention a failed attempt for control would most likely result in the Reds joining up with the other side and cutting off trade rights,” I said, getting a surprised smile from Chloe.
“That’s amazing.” Was all she said. Her smile was saying the rest. Jericho, you’re awesome, it said. Although the words didn’t leave her lips I could see it plainly.
Now, if I could only keep up the act of being a freakishly knowledgeable philanthropist instead of some geek who had been betrayed by the French one too many times on Medieval II: Total War, then I’d be looking better all the time.
“So you’re a Red?” I asked, standing and starting to reload my rifle.
“Proudly,” Chloe said. “We represent the very heart of Russia with our hard work, engineering and love for her people.”
“Let me guess,” I said, finishing my piece and slinging it over my back. “The Fascists have the morals and religious ideas, the Bears have the firepower and stubborn streak and you guys fix everything that breaks because the other two sides put too much time into morals and power, right?”
Chloe frowned, rolling her eyes around a little in thought before finally saying, “That’s pretty much it.”
I nodded knowingly. “Just so you know, I always chose the industrious sides in every online game that came down the pike.”
Chloe didn’t really know what to say to that as we made our way back to the street where what was left of the S-20 smoldered away in chunks. I asked her what he’d been doing there and why he decided to attack us since we were wearing Fascist armor and all.
That little inquiry induced a ten minute lecture that brought me up to speed on the difference between actual Fascists, which was what the S-20 had been, and Rogues, which was what the guys who had dropped an EMP grenade into my 2340 welcome packet had been. Also somewhere in the lecture she told me that we actually needed to get out of our current armor ASAP because no one liked the Rogues due to their knack for ambushing convoys from all sides and preying on the weak. Her final answer about why the S-20 had been there was most likely to buy fuel.
“If you love this junk,” Chloe said as we slunk through the streets, waving at my armor, “Then you should get a real rush out of my father’s new design christened the Dragunov. They haven’t become available for combat as of yet but when they do they’ll cost right at one-hundred-million ruble a unit.”
I was shocked at the price at first until I remembered that ruble was way different from good old U.S. bucks and that one-hundred-million ruble was right around $3,406,251 for us.
And fifteen cents.
Still a good chunk for a single suit, though. I have to confess that I was also pretty bummed that the future currency was the same. It would be a lie if I said that I hadn’t been hoping it would be credits. Or, you know, at least called credits…
“Can your daddy’s new Dragunov run as fast as these?” I asked, stepping into yet another alleyway behind Chloe.
“Actually they have only been clocked at 40 mph at top speed.”
I nodded, not really sure where her dad had made this crazy breakthrough that I was supposedly going to quote/unquote “get a rush out of” if 40 mph was all I could get out of his new design. Then Chloe sealed the deal by smiling at me and saying, “But it can fly over two-hudred.”
See? Isn’t the future freakin’ great? I had a feeling that Dr. Atrium Sparks and I were going to get along just fine.
After we had found a suitably abandoned shack, Chloe decided that ditching our suits would be best done now rather than later, stating that we shouldn't push our luck. To which I replied that when someone was as awesome as I was, luck wasn't even a factor. To which she rolled her eyes at me.
After we'd got out of the suits and I had started jumping around like a loser with chattering teeth, Chloe went through the rooms in search of spoils. I was guessing the shack had once been a gas station of sorts then later someone had moved into it in its present mutilated state and had attempted to wall in a few sections for privacy.
It really didn't do much so I wasn't exactly going to give the future want-to-be contractor any points for his attempt. But hey, when life gives you lemons...
“In here,” Chloe called to me from one of the makeshift rooms. I waddled in, trying to keep my legs close together like I'd seen some penguins do in documentaries, thinking that this would help with the cold. It didn't, just so you know.
Being soaked with sweat had been fine in the S-16 but not so much in the bitter freezing elements of Flagstaff. Just how cold was it, anyway?
“It's only ten below,” Chloe told me after seeing my march of the penguins dance and somehow reading my mind. “Stop being such a wimp.” She said, waving at a trunk she'd found, “Let's see what we can find us to wear.”
I was shocked at how fruitful our search had been. Shocked and super thankful/grateful to the future want-to-be contractor who'd left the trunk filled with clothes.
Except he probably went out to grab some things one day and got a bullet in the head. That was more likely.
Once we'd finished pulling on the clothes we looked like a couple of mercenaries. The thick plain black shirts and pants weren't the snazziest apparel but the heavy dark red overcoats that reached to our knees were pretty much wicked. Thick, too. I swear it felt like I'd pulled on a little red cloud of awesome warmness.
Since Chloe hadn't sweated like an Egyptian slave in her suit, she didn't have to take off any soaked clothing like yours truly. I stripped down to my boxers, which were staying no matter how drenched they were, and pulled on the black pants, dropping my beloved Amosu on the floor, never to be picked up again.
Then I noticed Chloe looking at me.
“What?” I asked. “I'm not about to put on some dead dude's undies.” Since I seem to lack the general part of the brain that tells the mouth to stop while it’s ahead, I finished with, “Just be glad you got to see this much. I once dated a chic for eight months in college who never even saw my feet.”
I'm guessing she didn't think I could see her and, to be honest, I didn't see her at first. I mean, Jericho Johnson had just taken off his shirt in the presence of a woman. Of course she was staring. And possibly even drooling like a blood-hound. Not sure because I wasn't close enough to tell.
Alright, I'm kidding. I mean, for a guy my age and build, you'd think I'd be a little more cut, you know? Sadly, I'm not. I don't look like someone in the last stage of leukemia, or anything, just not exactly built. How can I say this... Appealing yet not exactly hot? Does that make any sense? Well, I hope so because I've ran out of ways to explain myself to you.
“You're really tan for a guy who spends most of his tim
e in a basement,” Chloe said.
And tan. Did I mention I had a nice tan going on for me?
Alright, I lied, again. What was actually said was, “Wow, but you're pale. Don't you ever leave that basement of yours?”
I don't exactly have a tan. Just saying.
“Says the milky-white Russian chic that lives on Lost Planet,” I shot back, pulling on my shirt. “I'm so glad you didn't have to take off too much 'cause I left my Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses back home...”
“Spare me the lecture on ridiculously priced eyewear, would you,” Chloe muttered.
“...that I got for a steal at just $300,000. Knew a guy who knocked off about $80,000,” I finished, not about to back down.
Chloe rolled her eyes, something that I’d been seeing her do a lot recently. Which I hated because I thought our relationship was starting to develop quite nicely.
Also, that chic I mentioned dating in college was real and so was the situation. She was a doozy. Can’t really remember her name.
I didn’t notice the patch on the right arm of our new coats until I saw Chloe pull on the red overcoat. “Please tell me there aren’t any Nazis left.”
Chloe blinked at me for a second before noticing me point to the Swastika on my sleeve. She frowned at hers before saying, “We did have a lot of stuff stolen from one of our museums below. I suppose whoever broke in must have stashed some of it here.”
“So,” I said, slinging my assault rifle on my back, “We’re not going to get lynched for wearing these?”
“Not at all,” she said, picking up her rifle. “If anything they’ll think we robbed the museum then we’ll get arrested.”
Try and get a good picture of us, if you can. Chloe looked halfway descent because all she really added to her black jumpsuit and heeled boots was the long rusty-red Nazi coat. I, on the other hand, looked like a coloring book in the same coat with my black Chuck's still on my feet.
Jericho Johnson: The Gauntlet of Time Page 10
