Primary Termination

by Vincent Zandri

  “Tan, you okay?” Tony barks as we careen down the middle of the narrow road.

  I feel a bit stunned. Bringing my fingers to my temple, I give them a quick look.

  “No blood,” I say. “I’m not hit.”

  “Thank God,” he says. “Obviously the air bags are turned off or you’d have a face full by now. Me, too.”

  Turning around in my seat, I fire back at the trucks and, in the process, blow out the rear window.

  “Gus ain’t gonna like that either!” I shout.

  “Just do what you have to do,” Tony insists, his voice tense and tight sounding. “We gotta keep these bastards occupied for seven more minutes.”

  The engine on the Land Rover is big and powerful. Tony is able to keep a relatively safe distance of maybe one-hundred-fifty feet from the bad guys. But it’s still not out of range of their guns. Another couple of bursts rip up the hatchback. I return the fire. This time the rounds don’t bounce off the glass on the truck on the right. Instead, they makes a severe crack that looks like a spider web. The crack is so bad, the Everest cop seated in the shotgun seat busts the broken glass out with the butt of his automatic rifle. That’s when I steal the opportunity to take aim, fire.

  I nail the son of a bitch in the chest and face. Even from that distance, I’m able to make out the spray of blood.

  “I got one of the bastards!” I say.

  My parents are dead. So is Tony’s little brother. At a time when I should be an absolute wreck, I am instead charged up. Wired. My mission now is singular in purpose. Kill as many of these Everest bastards as I can. It’s exactly the kind of mindset that Gus wanted me to assume. Exactly the way he wants me to think and act if I am going to make it as a Resistance fighter. Hell, as a Resistance commander. I have no idea how long the war will last, but I won’t be satisfied being a common soldier. Not with my family becoming casualties of this new war.

  Turning back around, I aim the AR-15 once more, fire another burst. That’s when I see a flash coming from the truck on the right that’s far more brilliant and larger than that produced by the machinegun. Tony must have one eye trained on the road and the other in the rearview. Because that’s when he screams, “R . . . P . . . G!”

  Ben’s book signing is over, as is our dinner together. He walks me back to my apartment. I invite him upstairs, and it’s all we can do to get through the door. We’re undressing one another in the vestibule, and by the time we make it to the bedroom, there are no clothes in sight. For as tough as he seems, he touches me tenderly, using his hands and his mouth. He kisses me slowly, gently, and all I want to do is entangle myself in his warmth, feel his breath on my skin.

  When he enters me, it’s like I’m thrown into a different dimension altogether. This moment in time is not real. He is not real. Nor am I. But I feel him, and he is a part of me while together we move in unison, in harmony, the both of us making sounds of passion and love until we can’t hold out any longer and we come to that place that can never be taken away from us or ever denied. We are one.

  I lie pressed against him, my head on his chest. I listen to his heart beating, and I hear his steady breaths, and I never want this moment to end. It is a time when I am complete, and I need nothing else in the world but him, and I know he needs me. That is what I want to believe, anyway. That we need one another and that being with one another forever and ever is all we’ll ever need to survive . . .

  “Tanya, are . . . you . . . okay?!” Tony, shouting.

  The open road before me, the Land Cruiser swerving and bucking, but still speeding along. The smell of acrid smoke fills my senses and my head is not only throbbing, my ears are ringing.

  “What the hell happened?” I say. “I feel like my body’s been cracked like an egg.”

  “Anything broken?”

  I move my arms, legs, and twist my torso to the right and left. I’m definitely feeling bruised up, but nothing broken.

  “I’ll live,” I say. “But I’m not sure I’m at all happy about it.”

  “We got hit by an RPG,” he says. “Took out a good chunk of the back, but we’re still rolling. How, exactly, I don’t know.”

  “Poor Gus,” I say, “he’s not gonna like the condition of his Land Cruiser when we return it to him.”

  Bullets fly into the 4X4, and ping off the windshield frame. Way too close for comfort.

  “Still got ammo?” Tony says.

  Eject the magazine, check the load.

  “I’m good for now.”

  Good Lord, my head is ringing . . .

  “If you’re up to it, give them another burst. They’re right on our ass.”

  Spinning around, I take aim, fire into the truck on the left, splintering their windshield.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Those bulletproof windshields don’t mean shit. Maybe they were never bulletproof to begin with.”

  Turning back around.

  “When did we get hit with that RPG?” I ask, my voice sounding not like it’s coming from my mouth but from somewhere in the distance. “Like an hour ago?”

  “How about ten seconds ago,” he says. “I think you were out for a second or two.”

  I recall my dream. My so very vivid dream with Ben in my arms. How can it be that when I’m asleep, even for just a few seconds, I’m living a life separate from the life I’m living right now with Tony? This life where the world . . . our world . . . is coming apart at the seams. It’s coming to an end now that Everest is taking over and enslaving us, slowly, methodically, customer by customer. Just a few days ago, I was an editor at a once prominent New York City publishing house. My parents were alive and happy. Today, I’m a Resistance soldier, fighting for my life.

  I turn, shoot again, hit the grill on the truck on the left. They return fire, and a bullet comes so close to my head I hear it whiz past my ear like a hot wasp.

  “Bastard!” I shout, taking aim at the Everest cop manning the machine gun on the truck on the right.

  I fire and his head makes like JFK in Dallas. I couldn’t be happier about it.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  I empty the rest of the magazine into the truck on the left, until all I get is the click of an empty rifle.

  “I’m out, Tony,” I say. “You got any mags left?”

  “In my vest.”

  Reaching into Tony’s tactical vest, I pull out a full mag. Thumbing the mag release on the AR-15, I reload and fire three more rounds into the truck on the left. They return the fire, and one of the rounds catches the tip of Tony’s right ear. The blood sprays.

  “Shit!” he screams. “Tell me that doesn’t hurt.”

  I dig in my pocket for a handkerchief and press it against his ear. But he pushes me away.

  “Don’t worry about that shit right now, Tan. Use it on your leg. Look, we’re coming up on the road. Now the real fun begins. Brace yourself.”

  He slams on the brakes, forcing the trucks behind us to do the same. He then makes a sharp left onto the two-track that leads up the mountain to the Resistance compound . . .

  The Alamo.

  “Hope this is a good idea,” I say while bouncing around in my seat.

  “Not sure what Ben and Gus have in store, Tan. But I can bet it’s going to totally ruin the day for the Everest Police.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  We climb the hill, the Land Cruiser negotiating the sometimes-steep angle as though the 4X4 isn’t half shot up and blown to hell. But that doesn’t mean the Everest police aren’t on our tails. They’re driving pickups. Four-wheel drive pickups with big engines. They’re equipped for the rugged North Country.

  I try my best to get a shot or two off at them. But accuracy is impossible with all the bucking and bouncing. The good news is they can’t fire at us either. All we can hope for is that Gus and Ben made it safely back to The Alamo, that they are alive, and that they’re waiting for us right now.

  “Coming up on the gate!” Tony shouts, his right ear lobe d
ripping dark red blood. “Get ready!”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Not sure I know,” he says. “But we’ll damn well know it when it happens.”

  Directly ahead is the twelve feet tall gate, chain link and razor wire-topped fence that surrounds The Alamo. The gate is opened as promised. Since the Land Cruiser’s side-view mirror is shot out, I have no choice but to adjust myself in my seat, and gaze at the two trucks from over my shoulder.

  “They’re pretty close, Tony,” I announce. “We don’t want them following us through the gate. Can you go faster?”

  “Giving it all I got now, Tan,” he says. “Shoot at them again. Go for the tires.”

  Shouldering the rifle, I aim as best I can for the front tires on the truck to the right. Fire. I somehow nail the passenger-side tire. The blowout that follows slows the vehicle enough that the second truck takes the lead. That’s when I aim for its front tires. Fire several rounds. This time, I nail both tires. The first truck slows up but doesn’t stop. Both trucks are still coming at us despite blown out front tires that are rapidly shredding down to the metal wheels.

  Coming back around.

  “We’ve got the distance we need,” I say. “Or here’s hoping.”

  “Good, because here we go,” Tony says, as we speed through the open gate.

  Gazing over my shoulder once again, I see the gate closing. But it’s not closing fast enough. The two trucks may be damaged, but they are still coming up on our tail way too fast. But that’s when something incredible happens. The entire gateway lights up in a firework display of machine gun rounds. Hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of rapid-fire rounds pierce both trucks stopping them dead in their tracks. Even from a distance of one-hundred feet, I can see the bloody mess and hear the screams of the police as their bodies are torn to shreds along with the aluminum, plastic, glass, and metal truck bodies. If I were to describe this for a novel, I’d say it’s a slaughter.

  “Ben wasn’t kidding when he said he’d have a surprise for them,” Tony says, half under his breath as soon as the shooting stops.

  “They didn’t close the gate all the way on purpose,” I say. “They closed it slowly to make the cops thinks they had a chance of bursting through the perimeter. But all it did was lure them into a trap.”

  “Death trap,” Tony says. “Motion sensor triggered Vulcan mini-guns. Those bitches fire fifty rounds per second. Brilliant.”

  Behind me, a topless Jeep pulls up. It’s Gus and Ben. They both get out and approach us.

  “What the hell happened to my Land Cruiser?” Gus says.

  “And we’re okay, too, Gus,” I say, some less than subtle irony in my tone.

  Both men are bandaged up and look one-hundred times better than they did only fifteen minutes ago. Ben is carrying his pistol in his shooting hand. He makes his way past us while approaching the fence gate.

  “I’m gonna survey the damage,” he says. He gazes at me and Tony. “You two did a fine job. An unbelievable job.”

  “I guess that means we make the cut,” Tony says, with a wink.

  “There was never a question in my mind,” Gus says. “I’ve known you both for a long time. You can both fight, there’s no doubt about that. But you are also kind, gentle souls. You care about people, just like your folks did, Tanya. Your little brother did, too, Tony. The Resistance isn’t all about killing the enemy, it’s about getting our humanity back. About being free again.”

  I guess I couldn’t have said it or written it better myself. I look at Gus, standing tall and strong despite his wounds. I look into his big brown eyes, I gaze at his coffee-with-milk colored face and the gray beard which only adds distinction, and I can’t think of a better, more determined leader. We are blessed to have him. I’m sure if he had his way, he’d rather be back inside his hotdog shack making loads of people and their stomachs happy all day and all night long. But the world has changed for the worse, and if I had to make a wager, I’d put all my money on Gus Truman and his Resistance movement. How can we possibly lose with him leading us?

  The noise coming from the gate now being opened wider draws my attention. Ben is limping his way through the open gate, his semi-automatic aimed for the shot-up trucks. For a brief second or two a wave of anxiety shoots up and down my spine. What if one of the Everest police somehow survived and is now waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump Ben? I can’t help but be reminded of my dream . . . my vivid dream. I can still feel Ben in me, still feel his lips caressing me, still smell his leathery, smoky scent. That’s how real the dream was.

  Am I falling in love with Ben and Tony at the same time? If I am, that’s the worst luck any girl can have. But for now, in this life of the Resistance versus the Everest Corporation, I must be true to Tony. But maybe, when I go to sleep at night, I can also be true to Ben. We can be secret lovers.

  Speaking of Ben . . . He startles me when he fires a couple of rounds into one of the destroyed trucks, no doubt putting one of the survivors out of his or her misery. He then holsters his weapon. The move tells me all is safe. Through the gate opening, I see him taking photos of the wreckage and the carnage with his smartphone. Coming back through the gate, he closes it using a remote-control app on his phone. He then approaches us.

  “It’s not a pretty sight,” he says. “It will need to be cleaned up and the mini-guns will need reloading. In the meantime, I’ve sent the photos to Everest dot com Customer Service for their viewing pleasure.”

  Gus can’t help but smile.

  “Just gotta rub their nose in it, don’t you, Ben?” he says.

  “Hey,” Ben says. “That’s the way I’d write it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Ben,” I say. “As your editor, I approve one-hundred percent.”

  “We’re in total agreement, buddy,” Tony says, holding out his tactical glove-covered fist. “I’d write it that way, too. That’s badass.”

  Ben fist pumps Tony. My two lovers are friends.

  “Let’s get back to the village,” Gus says. “We need to bury our loved ones, along with that stranger.”

  Suddenly, now that all the action has come to a sudden stop, a wave of sadness passes through me. But I find myself peering up at a blue, cloudless sky, and I do not feel the need to wish for my parents to be looking down on me, watching out for me, protecting me. I already know they are.

  Hours later, we are showered and dressed. I’ve been given a gift of new clothing from The Alamo General Store. Some underwear, a new pair of Levis, a pair of new black cowboy boots, a cotton button-down, and even a suede vest. The aviator sunglasses I purchased for myself with the few real dollars I had left over, because that’s how Resistance fighters are paid twice per month. In real, US greenbacks.

  It’s going on dusk by the time The Alamo villagers, including Gus, Ben, Tony, and myself gather around four newly excavated graves at the far West end of the picnic area. It’s a small piece of land the Resistance has designated as a cemetery. As it turns out, the bodies of my parents, along with Mike Jr. and the van driver, whose name is Eric Gould thanks to his driver’s license, will be the first to occupy it. As sad as I feel right now, a big part of me couldn’t be prouder. I know in my heart of hearts, that Dad, the old soldier, wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  As the bodies are lowered into the ground, I shed quiet tears which I wipe from my face with my fingertips. Gus presides over the ceremony, offering some sincere if not solemn words of condolence. After all, Gus knew my folks and he knew Mike because they, too, were big fans of Gus’s Hotdog Shack. For Gus, anyone who established themselves as a return customer at his humble barbeque operation were not considered evergreen assets that made him cash again and again. They were considered family.

  When Gus is finished with his eulogy, the caskets are lowered into the ground by a team of young Resistance fighters. Another squad positioned off to the side fire four rounds from AR-15s into the air to commemorate and honor the lives and deaths of the Resistance’s f
irst four fallen heroes. We then say an Our Father. When the voices go silent, and all that can be heard in the far distance are the shotguns that are taking down the never-ending stream of Everest drone flights, we are asked to place the first fistfuls of earth onto the caskets.

  Leaning down, I take a handful of dirt from the pile set beside my parent’s graves. You might assume that I would break down and weep. But for some reason, I don’t. I get the feeling that’s the last thing my parents would want. This is not a time of peace. This is a time of war, and they would want me to be strong. I can hear their voices in my head. They are telling me to be strong.

  “What would Scout do?” my dad would ask me.

  Gazing at Tony, I sense he, too, must fight the urge to breakdown in tears as he tosses the first bit of God’s good earth onto his little brother, Mike’s, casket. He conducts himself with strength, courage, and grace as he backs away from the grave and takes hold of my right hand. Something very strange happens then. Ben shifts himself toward me and takes hold of my left hand. Both men hold my hands very tight, and the two of them make me feel more secure and more loved than I have ever felt as an adult woman.

  While the village mourners remain standing around the graves of the fallen, Gus leads us in a rendition of Amazing Grace. We sing until our voices drown out the gunshots in the distance.

  We sing for God. We sing for the future. We sing for the past. We sing for the dead.

  When the song is over, I find myself picturing my dad and I walking back home from the park just a few short days ago. It was the last time we were alone together. As a single tear runs down my cheek, I quietly sing “Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelopes play . . .” The congregation begins to sing along with me, and I find myself crying a few more gentle tears until the song is over.