Fighting to Survive

by Rick Pine

  Dave nodded.

  The tanker started to gradually slow as Dave turned into the exit lane of the highway. It had started to rain, but it was now getting heavy. The tanker turned slowly as the overpass curled around to merge onto the perpendicular road.

  “Keep an eye out for trouble,” Casey said as they followed the road as it strayed further from the highway.

  Casey was busy looking out the side window for signs of trouble when Dave spoke up. “There're lights up ahead. Not seen any of those in a while.”

  Casey spun around quickly and looked straight ahead. “Don’t stop!”

  “But it’s on red, I have—”

  “Don’t stop!” Casey repeated sternly. Casey looked back to his window and a side mirror. He could see Roy’s car, but there was another, too. “This is where they’ll hit. When we stop. Keep going!”

  Dave didn’t bother arguing again. Instead, he stared at the road ahead, looking for crossing traffic on the deserted streets.

  “Roy, you have a tail. Make him go away,” Casey ordered over the radio.

  “What?” Roy replied.

  “You’re being followed.”

  Casey looked in the truck’s side view mirror to see what Roy would do. But before Roy could do anything the car turned.

  “Hold on!” said Dave.

  The tanker jumped the red light without even slowing. Casey was suddenly aware of his heart thumping in his chest. He’d felt sure they were about to try and take the tanker. It was perfect. Almost textbook in its setup.

  The tanker turned left, heading back toward the highway. Moments later, as Casey and Dave turned onto the descending on-ramp, Little Franky came over the radio. “We’ve been hit! Fuck!”

  Casey pulled the radio to his mouth and pushed the button to talk. He let go of it almost instantly as he heard the gigantic explosion in front of them.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The cab was silent for most of the journey. Little Franky's driver, also called Dave, wasn't much of a talker, despite his best efforts to engage him. Little Franky figured he didn't leave the house much and wasn't used to talking. He looked just like a momma’s boy to him; probably still lives in her basement.

  "So, how long you been driving for, Dave?" Little Franky asked.

  "A while," he replied.

  "That long, huh?" Little Franky wished he'd respond with more than a few words at a time. Not only did he hate driving long distances, but he was worried about Nicolas. They'd grown to be friends over the last few years, despite all the short jokes he made at his expense. Little Franky was starting to crave distraction. He got his wish.

  As they continue down the highway, from out of nowhere came a loud bang, which was instantly followed by smoke billowing from the engine. Dave fought the tanker, slowing it to a gradual stop and preventing it from swerving and rolling over.

  "Don't stop!" yelled Little Franky.

  "The engine’s dead. I can't do anything," replied Dave.

  Little Franky saw a flicker ahead on the overpass in the distance. It was suddenly clear to Little Franky; it was a sniper. They'd shot a .50cal straight through the engine block, a fool proof way of stopping any moving vehicle.

  Little Franky grabbed his radio, which had fallen onto the floor when the truck's engine was decimated. As he snatched it from deep in the footwell, the passenger window shattered from a single shot. Little Franky looked up to see Dave slumped forward over the wheel, blood running from the side of his head. He stayed low. Now panicked, he called over the radio to Roy and Casey. "Fuck! We've been hit! Fuck!"

  With one hand on his rifle, Little Franky aimed out of the shattered window and pulled the trigger, firing blindly and hoping for some luck. He knew they wouldn't spray the cab with bullets as the risk of hitting the tanker and the thing blowing was too high. They'd want precision shots, for sure.

  He remained low and slowly opened the passenger door just enough to poke the end of his rifle’s barrel through the gap. Inching the door a fraction at a time, waiting for someone to come into view, he held his twitching finger on the trigger.

  There was a distinct silence that made him more anxious. The door was fully open now, with Little Franky laying low in the footwell of the passenger's seat, still waiting for someone to emerge into view. No one came.

  “It’s now or never, Franky,” he said to himself.

  He slowly crept forwards, keeping low. He put one foot on the metal step that led up to the cab. He felt his heart increase a beat with every inch he moved forwards. His hands were shaking as he held the rifle, meaning no steady aim for him.

  The fear started to paralyze him. He couldn’t think clearly. What should I do? What’s the plan again?

  He shuffled forwards, now committed to stepping out of the cab, and placed his foot firmly on the ground and tightened his grip on the rifle, pulling the stock deep into his shoulder as he stiffened up.

  His second foot hit the floor, and he was now standing. It was then he had his most paralyzing thought. The sniper! What if he’s still there?

  That was the last thing Little Franky thought before everything went dark.

  Chapter 18

  Dave slammed on the brakes hard, fighting the kickback from the tanker’s ancient anti-lock brakes, stopping just a few feet short of the hole that had appeared in the road ahead of them.

  Before the tanker had come to a complete stop, Casey opened the passenger door and jumped, controlling his landing with a well-timed roll. He got up quickly and ran straight for Roy, who was also slamming on his brakes.

  Casey ran directly to the truck of the car as it came to a full stop. He slammed his fist down on the truck as he yelled, “Open the trunk!”

  The trunk flew open, almost hitting Casey on the chin. Roy stepped out of the car empty-handed.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Can you not see the goddamn hole in the ground, Roy?” he replied, his head buried in the trunk.

  Roy leaned back inside the car and grabbed his rifle. When he popped his head back out he saw Casey had taken a second handgun from the trunk, a matching SM2065. Casey’s pockets were also full of spare loaded magazines. He tucked one of the guns inside the waistband of his pants and reached into the truck one last time.

  “Roy, catch,” he said, as he threw him a hand-grenade.

  He caught it one-handed. “Thanks,” he replied, with a surprised expression on his face.

  “Just don’t throw it near the tanker,” Casey said condescendingly. “They won’t start shooting near the tanker. They’ll try and draw us away somehow, so they can take us out. They won’t risk blowing this thing up,” he continued, before muttering, “I hope,” under his breath.

  “We need to get out of here, we’re sitting ducks,” said Roy.

  “I agree. Go check on Dave and tell him to start backing up, quickly. You can spin the car around and lead the tanker out. And shoot or bash anyone or anything that comes close,” he ordered.

  Roy ran down the length of the tanker to talk to the driver. Casey turned around, with his back to the car and tanker, and began walking back up the incline they’d just descended moments ago.

  The first thing Casey heard as he began his short walk was the roar of an approaching car. The second thing he heard was the all too familiar sound of an unsuppressed sniper rifle being fired, twice in quick succession, which was immediately followed by the shattering of glass and the thud of steel.

  Casey didn’t need to see to know what had happened. He’d been the other side of the rifle sight enough times to know Dave had just been shot through the window of the cab, and Roy was likely dead or bleeding out after being shot through the driver's door. He couldn’t help either of them now. Roy’s car was directly behind the tanker. To make those shots, the sniper must be looking straight on at the cab. Casey knew that meant he was safe as long as he stuck near the car.

  Casey moved his gun from his right hand to his left, before pulling out another hand-grenade
from his pocket. He pulled the pin and held in the fly-off lever, readying his arm to throw.

  He closed his eyes, focusing on the increasing volume of the engine as it approached. He waited a few seconds as he judged the distance of the oncoming car.

  “3… 2… 1…”

  Casey threw the grenade hard and far. He opened his eyes as it descended in a perfect arc.

  The car screeched to a halt at the crest of the on-ramp’s decent. Before they could open the door and take aim at Casey, who was now standing in plain sight, the grenade landed on the roof of the car before rolling back down onto the hood.

  Casey smiled as he saw the horror on the passenger’s faces as the grenade tumbled down the windshield.

  Boom!

  Casey shielded his eyes as it detonated, killing the occupants instantly and decimating the car as the gas tank exploded.

  More would be coming. There wasn’t much point in trying to defend the tanker now. It was gone. There was one thing left that could help him save Billy. He knew what he had to do. He needed the tracker.

  Casey turned and ran towards the car’s open driver’s door, being careful to stay low in case the sniper had changed position. He’d have certainly seen the explosion and the billowing black smoke now rising from the car and its former occupants.

  He grabbed the receiver. Thankfully Roy had left it in the car and hadn’t carried it with him. He didn’t fancy running into a sniper’s firing arch to retrieve it from Roy’s dead body.

  His first thought was to jump in the car and drive away, fast. It would probably work. But he’d draw fire from the sniper, and risk being chased or tailed by whomever else was close by. If he was going to carry out his plan, he would ideally need more information, like manpower numbers, and types of weapons and such.

  Casey looked around for a safe place to hide. He saw none.

  Another sound rumbled in the distance. More cars? No, this was a deeper sound. Was it a truck? He didn’t want to stick around and find out. Casey looked ahead; there was no way he’d make it to safety if he ran that way. Behind him, he had a sniper to contend with. He looked to his left, calculating the distance of the drop to the freeway. There were plenty of abandoned cars for cover, and the small forest at the side of the freeway would help, too.

  The sound grew louder.

  “Now or never,” he said to himself, tucking another gun into his pants. The Armco barrier was the only hurdle in his path.

  He heard the screech of the tires as they pulled up next to the burning car, and Casey ran towards the Armco and jumped, putting his foot on the barrier to provide him with extra lift as he flew over the edge of the on-ramp. It didn’t work.

  His foot slipped immediately as his weight settled onto it, spilling him forwards and head first toward the ground.

  Bang!

  Casey heard the shot from the sniper the moment his foot slipped.

  Snap!

  The bullet passed by Casey’s head, his thoughts taken away from his fall momentarily but now returning as the ground inched closer. He attempted to raise his arms to protect his head, but he wasn’t successful.

  He felt pain for a split second. But then all fell into darkness for Casey Russo.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Is he dead?” said a voice over the in-ear radio. “Confirm?”

  Derek was new to the IA, only joined last week, and already he was spotting for one of the Alliance’s top snipers.

  “I can’t see him,” Chris said to Derek while looking down the sight of his rifle. “He fell behind that rubble.” He was referring to the aftermath of the initial explosion they had detonated just a short time ago.

  “I’ll check,” said Derek. He got up and stepped awkwardly over his partner, who was still prone. He tried to run, but the distance was too short to gain speed. He stopped just 20-feet away, hoping to gain a better sightline.

  He raised his binoculars to his eyes. He could see the man who had jumped, lying on the floor and flat on his back. Well part of him. The rest of him was still blocked by the rubble. He hadn’t moved. “Target confirmed!” said Derek over his radio.

  “Can you see any sign of life?” replied the voice.

  Derek couldn’t see if his chest was rising and falling, or if there was a pool of blood. Even though he’d been with Chris just a short time, he’d never seen him miss a shot, ever!

  He couldn’t have survived the fall, even if Chris has missed.

  “No sign of life,” replied Derek.

  He aimed his binoculars up towards the support truck waiting behind the burning wreck. Someone got out and waved in their general direction. It was the signal to leave.

  He put his binoculars back in his webbed pouch as Chris put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Killing people makes me hungry. Let’s go get a burger. I know a nice place on the way back,” he said, and smiled at Derek.

  “Everything makes you hungry,” Derek replied.

  Chris shrugged and walked past him.

  “Do they have Sloppy Joe’s?” Derek asked as he jogged to catch up.

  Chapter 19

  When Casey awoke, the tanker and everyone else had gone. He rubbed his head, and the pain was still there. He checked his hand for blood; just a trickle. Nothing to worry about. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, but he was thankful for it. They must have thought he was dead, otherwise they’d have made sure of it.

  He slowly got up and took a minute to check himself over for anything that needed medical attention. Just a few scrapes, and a cut on his head. His left shoulder, however, was killing him. It had taken the brunt of the impact when he fell. He tried to move it and yelled out in pain. Dislocated. Great! He grabbed his left arm with his right to support it as he wandered around the rubble gathering his thoughts.

  He had to figure out a way of getting up to where the tanker used to be. He hoped Roy’s car was left abandoned, like the many others that littered the roads these days. But how?

  He walked around the rubble looking up through the new hole in the road. There was no conceivable way of getting up there. Not from there, at least. He turned around, looking at the bridge from where the sniper had positioned himself. It was getting dark now, and most street lights were out. The authorities never bothered to replace blown lights or even repair them. There was barely any traffic these days, so what was the point.

  Casey spotted a service ladder under the bridge. It looked to lead to the top of the bridge. The railing was only a few feet high and easy to scale, even with one arm.

  Casey looked both ways before crossing over the four-lane highway. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a single car in sight. He reached the median and looked both ways again before continuing. Some habits are hard to break, even for someone like him.

  He climbed the ladder one-handed without much difficulty, but jumping the railing was harder than it should have been. As his feet hit the ground he felt a wave of pain rip through his shoulder from the impact of the landing. Glancing around he saw the bridge had been closed off at each end with simple barriers. He could see why they chose this spot to strike from. It was pretty much perfect.

  Casey headed down the bridge, crossing back over the highway. He was two thirds across when he felt something hard under his boot. He stopped and lifted his foot. It was a bullet casing they must have missed when they left. Often snipers would be careful not to leave any evidence behind. But this was the IA, and they wanted people to know it was them. Publicity was good for recruitment, after all.

  He kicked the casing to the side and carried on walking to the other side of the bridge. The barriers were meant for cars, so there was ample space at the edge for a pedestrian or two to fit through. Casey was relieved not to have to climb anymore.

  After the leisurely ten-minute walk, he was back on the highway’s on-ramp. He was pleased to see Roy’s car exactly where he’d left it. The tanker was gone, obviously, but curiously the fire on the burning car had been put out. Casey sk
irted past the car towards the hole in the road. Roy and Dave were lying there, side by side, and covered with a sheet. It struck Casey as odd. He himself had killed his fair share of men, but he’d never once laid his victim’s bodies out and covered them with a sheet. Why had they treated them with such dignity? It made Casey uncomfortable thinking that the rebels were more humane than he was. It was food for thought.

  Casey walked back to the car and opened the trunk, retrieving the first aid kit. “Good old Roy, well prepared.” He took it to the hood of the car, where he used the car’s side mirrors to analyze the damage to his head.

  The small laceration was an easy fix. Some medical glue from the first aid kit was all it needed. His shoulder, however, was more problematic. He’d gotten used to the pain by now, sort of, but he knew how excruciating it was to put it back in its socket. That was a whole different ballgame. He rummaged through the first aid kit for anything that might pass as pain relief. Nothing.

  Casey checked the passenger door and the glove box, and laughed as he spoke to himself. “My my, Roy. What a naughty boy you are.”

  From the glove box he pulled out a multi-dose, pre-filled syringe pen. This wasn’t an EpiPen, nor insulin, though. It looked like Roy had been a secret junkie. Maybe he was just holding it for a ‘friend’?

  “White Lady” was getting more common on the streets these days. Because of the pre-filled automated injection system, it made it really hard to overdose with a single shot. A pen would hold multiple doses of heroin in one syringe. Most people saw this as a huge benefit, as the pens were very efficient, so users felt they were getting more for their buck. Despite all the problems the Cosa Nostra had caused, the one thing they hated was drugs. If people were buying drugs, they weren’t buying electricity or gasoline, which hurt their bottom line. To them, the biggest insult of all.

  The irony, of course, was that the more they got involved in people’s daily lives, and the higher the taxes rose, the more likely they were to buy drugs to help them escape their miserable existence. It was a vicious circle.