Enemy Lines: Navigator Book One

by SD Tanner

  Ark could see her vitals and she heard him speak. “Stay calm, Two One. You’re doing fine.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Now out of ammo, she swung her right arm at an enemy target next to her as she ran past him. Her hydraulics could deliver a clout equivalent to being hit by a moving truck, and the man was thrown from his feet. Forced to resort to hand-to-hand combat, she grabbed another man in front of her, and slammed him into the ground. Without hesitating, she stomped on him heavily, and then continued towards her guys who were still firing and retreating.

  As she moved closer to them, she shouted, “Where are they going?”

  “There’s vehicles behind the houses,” Ark replied. “Follow them.”

  There were at least ten enemies still surrounding her, and she began to swing her arms wildly, catching them with hard and fast blows. Her visor was now emitting a high pitch trill to warn her she was almost out of power.

  “Ark, I’m losing it!”

  Continuing to punch out wildly at the bodies around her, she felt the power cut off, and dropped to her knees with the weight of the gear.

  “Ark, I’m down!”

  Her visor went blank and without it, she was blind whether she wore it or not.

  “Ark,” she whispered breathlessly, knowing she was caught.

  “You’re okay. Don’t panic,” Ark replied steadily.

  Before she could call him an asshole, she ran out of power and her radio mike went dead.

  Confused and frightened, she whispered, “Ark?”

  CHAPTER THREE: Siren’s song (Steve)

  The woman on the television was clearly panic-stricken, and her usually immaculate makeup was shiny with sweat. On his wide flat-screen, little clumps of mascara were visible around her eyes, making her look slightly clown-like. Outside his apartment in downtown Albuquerque, the sirens were wailing, one on top of another, until the noise took on an almost insane rhythm he could dance to.

  “Police are reporting an escalating number of domestic violence incidents taking place across the city. In downtown Albuquerque there are thousands of attacks being reported, and no one knows why.”

  It had started with murders being reported less than an hour ago, but now the disheveled looking news reporter was telling them not to call ‘911’. Apparently, they were busy and he scratched at his head irritably. This morning he’d woken up with a blinding headache, and his wife, Lucy, had told him to stay in bed. Initially he hadn’t wanted to. He’d only just been promoted to Claim Processing Manager, and he didn’t want to jeopardize his Christmas bonus, but since this morning his headache had evolved into a full-scale migraine. Now his head was so itchy he was contemplating attacking it with a fork.

  “Albuquerque isn’t the only city to be affected. There are reports from all the major cities of a massive number of domestic attacks. People are murdering their family members in their own homes, and others are attacking strangers in the street. Police are advising everyone to stay in their homes unless they’re attacked, but they aren’t telling us where anyone can go to be safe. Hospitals are operating at capacity, but even they are not immune to the attacks. There are reports of incidents…”

  The over-sized woman on his forty-inch flat screen had stopped talking, and was frantically looking over her shoulder at something happening behind her. Still sitting with his feet propped up in his favorite lay-z-boy armchair, next to his elbow was an abandoned bowl of cold spaghetti. He couldn’t remember when he’d heated it up, but he noted there was a fork stuck in the hard, sticky mess. Pulling the fork out, and not bothering to wipe it clean, he rammed it against his tingling scalp, and rubbed the prongs vigorously into his skin. The scraping noise echoed through his head, making him drill the fork in even deeper. It hurt less than he expected, and he continued to dig at the tingling sensation, until it was overridden by the feeling of metal on bone.

  “Oh my God, we have to get out of here…”

  The high-pitched tone of the woman’s voice caught his attention again and he forgot about the fork. Outside he could hear sporadic gunfire and it annoyed him. It was interrupting the pleasant rhythm of the sirens and giving his music a rap feel. He didn’t like rap, the jerkiness was jarring and he couldn’t dance to it. The woman on the screen had disappeared and the camera was pointing downwards at the road. Bored with the view, he took the remote from his lap and began flicking through the stations, but whenever he found one, the emergency broadcast image would appear. He continued to change the channel, but soon all of them were displaying the same image.

  Bored with the television, he cranked the arm on the side of his chair, flicking the footrest down. Lucy should be home soon and he wanted to see her. They’d only been married for two years. They’d met at his father’s sixtieth birthday party in Bernalillo, and it had been a whirlwind courtship. She was a diminutive brunette with perfect curves, and it was a second marriage for both of them. He supposed they’d both been lonely, but whatever the reason for their attraction to one another, they’d been married within a year of meeting. Being in their mid-thirties, they were keen to start a family, and his recent promotion meant Lucy could quit work.

  Wandering into the bathroom, he studied his face in the large square mirror over the sink. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but with his full head of hair and craggy features, he wasn’t unattractive either. It was then he heard something dripping, and glanced down at the white porcelain bowl. It was streaked with red, and turning his head slightly, he noticed blood was dripping past his ear and splashing into the sink. Lucy was a fussy housekeeper and she wouldn’t be happy with the mess he was making.

  The blood reminded him of something he was supposed to do, and he walked across the small apartment to their bedroom. Sliding aside the mirrored door to their wardrobe, he looked up at the neat rows of boxes above the hanging clothes. Ignoring his initial impulse to carefully search through the tidy shelf, he began to tug at the cardboard and plastic boxes, throwing them to the ground. The box he wanted was tucked away at the back where Lucy would never find it. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and it was an unremarkable looking shoebox he knew Lucy would never look in. Sitting on the bed with the box in his lap, he carelessly flicked the lid off, and inside was a Ruger P95 with fifty rounds of ammunition.

  Lifting the gun from the box, he used the barrel to scratch his scalp again, then checked to see if it was loaded and it was. Putting the gun on the bed, he fumbled at the bottom of the wardrobe for his most hardwearing walking boots and tugged them on. While he laced them, the blood from his scalp ran down his face, dripped from the end of his nose, and landed on the top of his steel-capped boots. Ignoring the blood, he decided to put on his coat. It wasn’t cold enough to need one, but the pockets were large and deep, and he loaded the gun and extra ammunition inside them.

  He was ready to leave and then wondered where he was going. Confused, he sat down on the bed again and listened to the sound of gunfire outside. It seemed to be growing and he wondered why. The distinctive sound of a key in their front door lock caught his attention and he heard Lucy’s voice.

  “Steve! Steve!”

  It took a moment for him to realize that was his name, and he looked towards the door. Within a few seconds, Lucy’s tiny frame filled the doorway, and she ran forward into his arms.

  “Have you seen the news?” She asked in a breathless voice. “I ran all the way home. I tried to call, but the phones aren’t working.” Beginning to sob, she clutched at his neck, burying her face in his heavy coat. “People are killing one another everywhere. I was sitting at my desk and people started showing one another news reports on their phones. I didn’t wait. I was so worried about you…I…I ran.”

  His hand was still in his pocket, wrapped around his Ruger, and he didn’t know why. He loved Lucy. They were going get a house with a mortgage in the suburbs, have a couple of kids, and she was going to become a soccer mom. That was the plan and they were excited about it. H
e knew the life he’d planned to have, but he didn’t recognize this woman anymore.

  Lucy pulled back from his coat and stared up at his face worriedly. “Are you okay? Why are you bleeding? What happened?”

  He looked back at her, but her face wasn’t familiar. She could have been anyone, in fact she reminded him of the woman on the television. Her dark hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail, and long wisps were trailing down her cheeks. Black smudges of mascara dotted her cheekbones, giving her a raccoon face, and the idea she was a small, furry animal made him chuckle softly to himself.

  “What are you laughing at?” She asked warily.

  She slowly stood up from the bed and carefully stepped back towards the bedroom door.

  “Steve?”

  Her eyes were wide with fear, and he could see tension was building in her curvaceous body. He remembered having sex with her, only now their moments of intimacy struck him as absurd. The whole sexual act was ridiculous, and he wondered why he’d ever thought it was important. Thinking about the jiggling motion made him laugh out loud.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “Steve…”

  His scalp was itching again, and still holding the gun, he pulled his hand from his pocket and used it to scratch the spot vigorously.

  “Put the gun down, Steve.”

  Her tone irritated him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, his head was itchy was all. She was always nagging him about something. According to her, he made a mess of the bathroom, left dishes in the sink, and didn’t listen to her when she told him what was good for him. Lucy annoyed him, but he was only just realizing it and he glared at her resentfully.

  She must have sensed the change in his mood and she cried, “No, Steve, don’t.” Giving him a pleading look, she said desperately, “I’ll leave and I won’t come back. I promise. Just let me go. Please.”

  He could let her leave and then she wouldn’t be so irritating. Pursing his lips while he studied her, another itch began to tingle down his spine, and it was even more annoying than the one on his scalp.

  “Why are you bleeding? What’s happened to you?”

  Her comment seemed at odds with her previous one, and he looked at her quizzically. His life seemed to be shrinking into a series of competing needs. His back was itchier than his scalp, and he wondered how he could scratch it. Seeing the gun in his hand, he rubbed it vigorously against the back of his thick coat. It helped a little, but it didn’t make the annoying sensation go away.

  Lucy must have seen his action as her opportunity to escape and she turned and ran. Her sudden movement crystalized something in his addled mind, and he leapt from the bed after her. Their apartment only had a small combined kitchen and lounge area leading to the front door. Heading for the door, Lucy tripped over a low footstool and fell in a sprawling heap.

  Seeing her lying on the ground, with her body half twisted to face him, he felt a deep surge of distaste. It wasn’t hatred or even anger, only that he didn’t want her around anymore. She didn’t belong here and she should leave. A small voice inside him suggested he should let her go, but he didn’t think that was good enough. She shouldn’t be here, and by here, he didn’t mean in their apartment. She simply shouldn’t exist. Somehow her presence threatened his, and if he had to choose, then she would be the one to go.

  Lifting his hand with the gun, he aimed it directly at her.

  She raised a hand to her face, as if she could protect herself against a bullet. “No, no, Steve, don’t. I’m sorry.”

  Her apology momentarily confused him, and then he decided she was apologizing for being somewhere she didn’t belong. It was good she understood she didn’t have the right to exist, and he pulled the trigger. He’d never fired the gun much, and yet the noise and buck of the weapon felt familiar in a way it shouldn’t have. The bullet ripped through the air, sliced into her hand, and then penetrated her face.

  He leaned over her collapsed body, only vaguely interested in the effect of the bullet, and could hear her breathing in ragged gasps. The bullet had torn through her forehead, leaving a bloodied trail from her eyebrow to her hairline. She wasn’t dead, in fact he doubted the wound would kill her. He contemplated shooting her again, but the sound of gunfire outside the apartment caught his attention. There was something he was supposed to do, and it was related to the sirens and bullets.

  Stepping over Lucy’s bleeding body, he opened the door to their apartment, and walked into the corridor outside.

  CHAPTER FOUR: Friendly fire (Jonesy)

  The precinct was going crazy. People were running from phones to their computer screens and back again. It had started an hour ago, and the noise level was now so high he couldn’t hear himself think. The dispatch center had lit up like a Christmas tree with panicked calls from people across Albuquerque. Even now, the large television screen in the main office area in the precinct was constantly playing news reports. It was as if a switch had been flicked, and the entire city had erupted into domestic violence. People were calling in, sounding desperate and saying someone was trying to kill them. During some of the calls, the person was heard being murdered, while still pleading for help from the operator. Cars that had been sent to addresses were disappearing on route, and no one could raise them on the radio. Since the calls had started, over half of the cops on the beat were now missing.

  At fifty-five years of age, he was far too old to be out on the beat, and had long settled into a desk job processing paperwork. They used a lot less paper now and it was mostly electronic forms, but the intent was the same. Every action they took in the department had to be recorded, justified, explained and approved. It was a boring job, but he was happy with his nine to five routine. For the first time in thirty years, he was able to go home every night to his wife, Jenny. It had been a while since he’d needed to carry a gun and he didn’t miss it. A cop’s life wasn’t like some cheesy seventies television show, there weren’t bad guys on every corner, and mostly all he’d ever dealt with were idiots. The way he saw it, he’d done his fair share of picking up the drunks and hustling gangs of youths from dark corners.

  He hadn’t really wanted to get involved in some huge scene, and had assumed it was just one of those days. A full moon really did bring out the lunatics, but it was broad daylight and there was no moon. Tucked away in the corner of the office where no one ever looked, he watched the increasing panic in front of him. He’d long lost the need to appear tough, and he’d been trying to ignore the chaos building around him. These days he was too tired to beat his chest at all the other chimps in the pack, but when even the rookie cops began gearing up, it was their tense faces that finally tore his well-padded ass from his chair.

  Removing his reading glasses, he put them away in their case so they wouldn’t get scratched. Jenny was an excellent cook, her homemade pasta was to die for, and given his cholesterol results he very well might. He’d put on at least fifty pounds since he’d last been on the streets, and his doctor had put him on statins for the rest of his life, effectively giving him permission to indulge knowing there would be no consequences. Tugging his jacket from the slightly fuzzy fabric covering his padded swivel chair, he sighed and prepared to step into the fray. He really was too old to join in, but he’d been a cop for thirty years, and he wasn’t going to abandon his city if it really needed him.

  Walking across to the Commander, he waited until she’d finished issuing orders to her deputies. When she finally turned to look at him, he smiled wanly. “I’m trained and I can use a gun. What can I do?”

  He expected her to tell him he was too old, too fat and too out-of-date, but she didn’t. “Find yourself a rookie and keep them alive,” she replied tersely.

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  Her pale face seemed to become even more waxen, and he realized she was frightened. “No, I don’t. Half the cops out there are missing, and even the ones we find keep disappearing again.”

  Her name was Jo, short for Josephine, and she was
usually sharp, blunt and never flustered, but now she placed the palm of hand against her chest, and seemed to fold slightly into herself. “I don’t understand. I’m losing my officers. The operators have heard gunfire in the squad cars.” Shaking her head, she muttered, “They’ve heard them killing one another.”

  “What have you heard from the other precincts?”

  “Not much. No one’s had time to talk other than to report the same problems.”

  These days the news and other social media provided the most up-to-date information, and he swung his heavy, six foot three inch frame to face the flat screen television mounted on the wall in the main room. A nervous blonde newsreader was looking over her shoulder anxiously, then the camera must have been dropped, and all he could see was a shot of the asphalt road.

  Turning away from the screen, he asked, “And what exactly is the problem?”

  “I don’t know. An hour ago, the switchboards jammed with calls about attacks happening on the street and in people’s homes. Family members, neighbors and strangers just started attacking one another. We have reports of people being killed with guns, knives, and other weapons. Men, women and children are being slaughtered. We contacted University Hospital to ask them what condition the survivors were in, but we never got a sensible reply. All they told us was they had people with near fatal injuries, and then they came under attack as well…by their own staff, patients and visitors.”

  “What does HQ say about it?”

  Jo gave him a look of disbelief. “We lost contact with them about twenty minutes ago, but before we did they had nothing useful to say. It seems every station across the country is in the same position, and they had no useful advice to offer other than to deal with it.”

  “What do you mean you lost contact with them?”

  “They’re not answering our calls anymore and the radio is down.”