Falcon shook his head. “You keep that racket up and anyone within ten clicks of us will hear. Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“Hell no.” Brainiac grinned at them and crouched low. Metal gears ground together. “I’m improvising. Isn’t that what you special forces cock-suckers admire?”
Papa Rose coughed over his laugh. Even squid have teeth.
“You’re gonna admire my boot up your ass if your caterwauling gets me shot.” Falcon kicked a rock in his direction. “Stop laughing.”
“I thought you said you barely knew the runt?” The stone skipped over the asphalt and thudded to a stop against Papa Rose’s worn steel-toed workboot. Rain studded the blacktop. Soon the smell of wet asphalt competed with the stench of decay.
Metal clanged together, echoing around the belly of the tanker.
“Empty, just like I thought.” Brainiac straightened and dusted his hands. “Maybe we shouldn’t have driven through the side streets. We might have had better luck looking for a full truck on the interstate.”
Maybe, but there was no point in second guessing themselves. They were almost out of Tolleson and soon they’d be on the open road and could look there. “My mama told me never to crash a party without a gift, and I don’t intend to disappoint her.”
And if they didn’t find any gas between the western suburbs of Phoenix and Palo Verde, well then, they were just going there to piss in the wind.
Brainiac hooked his hand around the handle arcing over the top of the tanker. “Your mama tell you what goes with radioactive fondue?”
“Get your fool ass down here.” Falcon shoved up the visor of his helmet.
“Aye, aye.” Brainiac climbed down faster than a monkey from a tree. With his wiry build, he resembled one too. His heels rapped loudly against the silence when he jumped the rest of the way to the ground.
Falcon swore. “Keep it up and we’re gonna get holes punched in our asses.”
The skin between Papa Rose’s shoulder blades itched. Could someone be watching them from behind the tinted glass? He inched closer to the double doors. Only one way to find out. “Anyone want a Slim Jim?”
Squaring his shoulders, Falcon swung his gaze to the convenience store and nodded once. “How many do you think you can get?”
So the other soldier felt it too. Good to know his spider senses weren’t misfiring. He shoved up his rain spotted visor. “Won’t know until I enter.”
Falcon’s finger slipped onto the trigger. “I got a powerful craving. Stand watch, B.”
Cradling his M-4, Brainiac strode to the motorcycles. “I’d like some chips if you can find any.”
“Sure thing.” Was the kid dense or buying into the game? Papa Rose waited until Falcon fell into position behind him as he walked toward the door. Anyone with a lick of sense would recognize it as an offensive position. Still, there was a chance civilians cowered in the dark interior.
He stepped onto the shiny green landing in front of the store, turned his body to make a smaller target then reached for the handle. His fingers crossed the clammy surface wrapped around the handle, then he yanked it open.
The door swung out silently.
Death perfume rolled out of the opening.
Papa Rose swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Maybe he’d discarded his face mask prematurely.
Lightning flashed in the west, shooting rays of light into the gloom. Empty white shelves protruded like bleached bones from the mass of bodies tossed three and four deep on the floor. Dark stained pockmarks marred one wall. Broken glass glittered like diamonds across jackets and spilled hair.
“Looks like they were herded inside then shot.” Falcon stepped over the outstretched arm of one man and found an empty place next to his head.
“Not all at once.” Locking the door open, he shifted aside an empty potato chip bag and placed his weight on his leg. “Some are stiff.” He pointed with his weapon to the pale, stiff fingers reaching for the blood-spattered ceiling then to the fat woman whose rolls oozed around her limp body and leaked fluids. “Others have been here a while.”
The newcomers would have learned their fate too late to prevent it.
“Should we check to see if any are alive?”
Hell no. Lifeless eyes stared back at him, accused him from death masks etched in pain and fear. Thunder rumbled down the street and rattled the windows. Right, if he wanted to get into heaven and see his wife and kids, he’d better earn it. “I’ll take the right.”
Falcon nodded.
Sliding his finger off the trigger, he crouched down and poked the doughy neck of the nearest body. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
A loud thump came from deep within the store.
He shot to his feet, aiming his gun at the swinging doors near the brain-splattered hot dog carousel. His heart hammered his chest. A few controlled breaths calmed his thoughts. “Could be a rat.”
Falcon crept toward a blood smeared end cap. “What and avoid this smorgasbord?”
Yeah, his thoughts were messed up. But dammit why did he have to keep shooting people when most were going to die anyway? How the hell was he supposed to work off the body count he had already accumulated when he kept adding to it? He’d never reunite with his family this way.
Falcon directed their assault with one hand.
Papa Rose’s finger returned to the trigger. Guess they were going in. Hunkering down, he set one boot on the cadaver’s belly. Gingerly, he shifted his weight onto it. It collapsed in a burst of stink just as he lifted his heel. His teeth clattered and his ankle wobbled as his sole hit the spine.
Falcon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ribs, dip shit.”
Excuse him. He’d never used corpses as stepping stones. Shaking the tepid goo off his boot, he aimed for the next body’s chest.
“There’s ribs in there?” Brainiac buzzed in his ear like an annoying insect. “Damn, I’m hungry.”
He closed his eyes and shifted his weight. Please don’t splat. Please don’t burst. After a brief wobble, it firmed. The next one shifted as the one underneath it gave way. They’re not people; they’re stones. Stepping stones. Breathing through his mouth, he crept down the aisle. His brain short-circuited, neutralizing his taste buds, planting him firmly in the moment but not the charnel house.
Sweat stung his eyes. Rain pattered the pavement, hissing as it hit. Lightning exploded in the sky and thunder soon followed. He increased his speed, leaving the stones almost as soon as they began to shift. If they waited too long, the storm would disguise the actions of whoever lay beyond those doors.
Falcon stood to the side, out of sight of the glass panes in the black doors, waiting.
Finally, Papa Rose lowered his foot to the brown linoleum. Two refrigerator cases stretched between him and his target. The tacky blood stuck to his heels when he inched forward, but at least his boots didn’t squeak.
The double doors exploded outward with a scream.
A very human scream. The world slowed down as he processed everything at once. A dark shadow cleared the threshold. The doors banged against one wall and Falcon. The impact knocked his weapon off target. A bullet slammed into the racks, spraying metal chips in the air.
Papa Rose raised his gun.
The shadow threw itself against the door holding the other soldier.
Fuck! If he shot, he’d hit Falcon. Muscle coiled around bone and he sprang forward.
Lightning cracked the darkness, illuminating the fear on the kid’s face. Wide blue eyes stared back at him. Dried blood glued the hair to the side of her head.
It’s a kid. The thought skimmed his consciousness just as he tackled her. Twisting at the last minute, he bore the brunt of the impact with the door. The rubber gave just a bit but the crash rattled out his bones.
Falcon’s groan transmitted across the wire.
“Do you need back-up?” Brainiac’s question swirled inside his head.
He wrapped his arms around the squirming kid
, slithering up and down his body while her heels played his shins like a xylophone. “It’s okay, kid. You’re safe.”
She answered him with a jab in the gut.
“Kid? What kid?” Brainiac spat into his skull.
The door shoved against his spine and he and the kid slid along the floor with the grace of a sidewinder.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
“Hold your position, B!” Falcon’s scream overrode the girl’s threats. “Get the kid under control, Papa.”
“We’re not going to hurt you.” He rolled, pinning her under him.
Her bones, as fragile as a hummingbird’s, shuddered. Once. Twice. A third time. Finally, she lay still. “Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
Christ Jesus. What had she been through? A body, decaying inches from her nose, told the story.
“We’re not here to hurt anyone.” Falcon squatted next to her bare feet. “We’re here to help.”
“Help?” She blinked.
He rolled off her. Close enough to contain her, but far enough to give her a little space. “Yes. We’re soldiers.”
She turned her head and stared at him, a wild animal gauging the threat in the darkness.
“You’re safe now.” Lowering his gun to the side, Falcon reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cookies. He held them out to her. “We’re going to keep you safe.”
She stared at it for a moment. Her hand shook as she reached for it.
From fear or starvation? He clenched his jaw shut. Not that it mattered. The cookies would hold her until he got a Meals-Ready-to-Eat warmed up for her. The skinny thing needed food and they had extra.
Falcon smiled and dropped it into her waiting hand. His teeth gleamed white against his black skin. “Is there anyone else hiding in the back?”
She paused before biting the package. The corner dangled from her teeth when she ripped it open. She spit it on the ground then dumped the cookies into her palm. One by one, she divvied them up.
Papa closed his eyes for a moment. There was another survivor.
“Toby, you can come out now.” Once done yelling, she popped half in her mouth then fisted the other and pushed to her feet.
He turned to see a preschooler dragging a teddy bear emerge from the stockroom. “Daddy?”
Air froze in his lungs. His son Patrick had sounded just like that.
“No, not Daddy.” The girl stumbled over an outstretch hand trying to reach the preschooler. “Soldiers. They brought cookies.” She cupped his hand and poured his share into it. “See?”
“I yike cookies.”
Falcon cleared his throat and sniffed. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Yeah, their plans for a one-way trip just crumbled. No way could they have a weenie roast over a nuclear fire when they had kids to get to safety. “I can take ‘em on my bike.”
He’d done it in another lifetime. His fingers curled into fists. This time he wouldn’t fail. Please, God. Don’t force me to ink another rose onto my arm. He was already fully sleeved.
Chapter Five
Seventeen-year-old, Emmanuel Saldana sidled to the back of the personnel carrier. So many people, yet most didn’t say a word. They should be celebrating, happy. They’d made it to the soldiers and safety. Plopping down onto the folded tent, he tugged a Halloween size bag of Skittles out of his pocket.
Life was good.
A German shepherd dozed near the gate. Its legs twitching as if it chased a plump rabbit in its sleep.
He stroked the coarse fur. The dog opened one eye as Manny scratched behind one silky ear. “It’s only going to get better. Right, boy?”
The dog woofed softly before closing its eye.
He ripped open the bag and shook a few of the rounds into his palm. Behind him, children laughed. He picked out his younger sister Lucia’s giggle over his brother Jose’s snort. The orphans he’d taken in, Mary and Mikey, were there too, being taught their lessons by Blind Connie. He picked out two yellow Skittles and popped them into his mouth. Lemon bit the back of his jaw. His favorite.
The engine rumbled to life accompanied by an odd popping noise.
The dog leapt to its feet, crouching low. He bared his teeth and growled.
The sugar sweetness glued Manny’s jaw shut. He blinked. That sounded like gunshots. Accompanied by a dull thwacking sound, bullet points of gray light blistered the canvas walls. The green fabric convulsed like a snake swallowing its prey.
“Gun!” Manny dove for the floor. “Get down!”
The German shepherd sailed out of the back.
No! He hadn’t meant to chase the dog away. His palms scraped the dirty truck bottom. Red, orange, purple and green candies bounced near his arm. One dirty sneaker and one red sock with puppies on it appeared in his peripheral vision. He whacked on an ankle. Puffs of ash billowed at his touch. “You need to get down!”
The owner of the ankle remained deathly still.
Shit! The person was too scared to move. He’d have to grab her or him. Manny levered his torso up.
Somebody wrapped a hand around his wrist and yanked. “Stay down!”
One arm slipped forward while the other buckled. He landed on his face and chin. The impact rattled out his skull, turning his eyes to pingpong balls in their sockets. He shook his head and followed the hand around his wrist to its owner. “What the—”
Wheelchair Henry lay at the other end. His gray pony tail made designs in the dust coating the floor and the wheels of his chair ticked as they continued to spin. “She’s already dead.”
“Dead?” How could that be? They were supposed to be safe. They were with the soldiers. The old man must be wrong. He glanced up.
The bullet had blown out the front of her face, leaving nothing but blood and clumps of brains in place of eyes, nose and upper lip.
He threw his attention back to the floor. A yellow Skittle wobbled on the floor. He reached for the candy.
“Manny.” Wheelchair Henry’s voice sounded far away.
Farther away than the candy. The candy was important. He pinched the oval between his finger and thumb. He’d brush it off and eat it. No point in it going to waste.
A child cried out.
His heart stopped in his chest. The niños! He squeezed the candy. The yellow coating cracked at the edges and the cream-colored guts oozed out. He had to protect them! They were his responsibility. He curled his legs under him. Muscles bunched.
The grip on his wrist tightened. “Stay where you are.”
His body relaxed at Wheelchair Henry’s bark. Stay. Yes. He would… Wait a minute. He wasn’t like the others. After his parents died, he’d survived for four months in gang infested South Phoenix. He’d kept his younger brother and sister alive, rescued the five-year-old twins from next door and saved his best friend’s sister from the gangs. He could—
“Focus on my voice, Manny.” Wheelchair Henry smashed his hand against the bottom of the truck.
Pain radiated from his knuckles up his arm. Manny jerked his hand back. “Hey!”
Wheelchair Henry held tight. “Good. Look at me.”
He glared at the old man.
“You’re mad. That’s good.”
He wouldn’t think it was so good if Manny punched him in the face. “Let me go.”
“No.” Using his elbows, Wheelchair Henry dragged himself closer. His useless legs wiggled like cooked spaghetti when he pulled free of the wheelchair. “You’re going to do something stupid.”
Bullets pinged against the side of the truck.
Embarrassment heated his face. A girl mewled. Lucia! He rose a little off the floor. His sneakers slipped until they gained traction against an obstacle on the floor. “I’m going to protect my family.”
“Think boy.” Spittle flew out of Wheelchair Henry’s mouth. “You won’t do the niños any good dead.”
He was thinking. He had to get the niños.
“Hold your breath to the count of four
. Hold it.” Wheelchair Henry tightened his grip.
Manny felt the man’s fingers grind against his wrist bones. He caught his breath.
“Good. Now let it out for four.”
The dust and ash swirled as he slowly let it out.
“Now, lifting only your head, tell me what you see.”
He raised his head. Heaps of arms and legs writhed along the bottom of the truck.
Wheelchair Henry jerked his wrist. “Start with the faceless doll on your right and tell me everything.”
“Doll? What doll?”
“The girl doll who’s ankle you tapped. Tell me.”
Manny studied the girl. No, not girl, a doll. Red dripped on the chewed nails of her right hand. Gray blobs clung to her pink teeshirt. “Her jaw is slack.”
“She didn’t see the bullet coming so it came at her from the back,” Henry translated. “Do the holes in the canvas blow in or out?”
A few long threads drooped from the bullet holes. “In.”
“Check the other side to be sure.”
Manny’s attention swiveled to the other side. Scanning the canvas, he didn’t see any threads hanging on the inside. “The firing seems to be coming from the right side only.”
A soldier in a khaki teeshirt slid on his belly through a slit in the canvas. A soft thud marked his landing on the left side.
“Good. Our boys will be heading out there to give them what for.” Wheelchair Henry tugged. “What else do you see? And I’m specifically talking about the truck this time.”
Rolling over onto his shoulder, he eyed the canvas then the ribs. “The roof seems free of holes.”
“Lower. Look lower.”
He did. The mass of bodies breathed as if they were one. A few dolls remained in their seats.
“What do you see?”
Frustration clawed at him. Obviously the old man wanted him to name something specific. “People.”
Guns fired close by. The rat-a-tat filled the canvas shell beating down the inhabitants. He ducked lower.
Wheelchair Henry chuffed. “The lower sides of the truck are metal while the upper half and top are canvas. What’s more, there are supplies and belongings packed under the benches. That’s the original Kevlar. It will stop your poop chute from getting plugged with lead.”
Redaction: The Meltdown Part II Page 5
