Skyfire

by Vossen, Doug

  Fully inform LTC Fry of everything that was discussed and tell him everything I know. Let him and whoever is left from staff come up with two courses of action to choose from for each possibility. Courses of action to accomplish what end state? Let me break this down into binary decision points. I work best with binary decision points based on fact. Time to take fear and emotion out of the equation. Let’s focus on logic. Come on Pat, remember Afghanistan and Iraq. You can do this.

  Situation: An unnamed threat is causing what appears to be violent psychotic breaks in otherwise normal people. All indications point toward the fractal phenomenon over the city being involved. Extra-terrestrial life has observed this and has made contact with us in order to try and assist (or so they say). Jesus, I can’t believe these are my notes. I wish I could dump this shit on someone else’s plate. I want to take my family and move out to Sante Fe. I love sitting in my brother’s big-ass backyard, looking at the stars, sipping whiskey next to the fire pit. If I leave now and take one of the humvees, I could be back upstate by morning and grab the family. We can take our comfortable car and fill up at the gas station between Sackets Harbor and Watertown. Before long, we’d be heading west through Pennsylvania, far, far away from here. No more shooting, no more flashing light, no more fucking eight-foot tall aliens. It’ll be awesome. Max will love it - he loves the car! Goddamn, do I love that fucking dog. He is-

  Sam Ramos peered through the flap of the tent. “Sir, we have security and a CCP established.”

  McColgan was jolted out of his fantasy of love, safety, and comfort. “I found Sergeant Major Earle. He’s in the loop now,” Ramos continued. “I’m going to go back and treat more wounded. I just thought you’d want to know where we’re at, sir.”

  McColgan collected himself. “Thanks, Sergeant Ramos. I knew I’d be able to count on you.”

  “Hooah, sir.”

  OK, no more spacing out. I need to find Fry and talk this over with him. We’ll figure something out. These people, and soon a hell of a lot more people, are going to start counting on me to be strong. Time to clean the sand out of my vagina and get this done. McColgan wrote down some final notes before finding what was left of his Brigade Staff.

  Æthereans help us after finding the doctor or they are lying and are responsible for all of this.

  Develop two courses of action for each situation.

  CALLIE

  “About thirty seconds, everyone,” Rudich announced over the headsets.

  This is it. Exit this thing just like we practiced.

  The bird banked downward and right at a very steep angle of decline. For a moment, everyone felt weightless. I think I’m going to be sick. This is why I hate Six Flags! Callie felt the blood rushing to her head as her stomach became uneasy. But these sensations came to a halt even faster than they had started. She felt the surprisingly light bump of the rubber tires hitting the grass of Central Park. Before she knew it, she was in a prone position, facing outward from the helicopter as it took off again into the darkness. Wow, I didn’t freeze up on some dumb shit. Good. Probably because I wasn’t paying attention. Shit, pay attention!

  The helicopter’s blinking lights illuminated an oncoming wave of people thundering towards the LZ from the northern part of the park.

  “It is in our best interest to move,” said Ronak.

  The mob’s screams and high-pitched screeching got louder with each passing second. How many people are we looking at? Hundreds? Thousands?

  “Fucking MOVE!” yelled Karl.

  The group took off. The grass was moist under their feet, making itdifficult to gain traction. Trent took the lead, sprinting up the incline to the western boundary of the park and hopping the wall effortlessly.

  Not bad for a drunk, thought Callie.

  Five seconds later Trent jumped right back over. “Shit, shit, shit!” he screamed. “Karl, Jack, get up here! Harrison, protect our six!” Trent popped off controlled pairs of rounds in quick succession. He flung an empty magazine to the ground and began again. His breathing and shooting sounded like a coordinated machine.

  Damn it! I don’t care how many times I hear it, those rifles are fucking LOUD!

  Jack and Karl caught up and added their firepower to Trent’s. As this was happening, a man affected by the phenomenon hurdled the waist-high barrier into Central Park from the street. Trent caught the man with his bayonet and slammed him to the ground. The momentum caused both of them to slide down the incline, Trent’s bloody blade stuck into the shrieking husk of a man. When they stopped sliding, Trent stomped on the man’s face, causing it to cave in. He then stabbed the man repeatedly. It looked like Trent was in a callous, murderous trance.

  Holy shit, this is brutal. This isn’t the same dude that seemed to care so much about Jessie. How do these sociopaths turn it on and off like that? One second it’s dick and fart jokes and the next it’s blood, guts, and mayhem. How do they pretend this is normal and laugh about it? Is it just some people’s nature to behave this way? I am way too fucking high to be running away from a mob of possessed assholes.

  The group made it over the stone divider and began heading north on Central Park West.

  “Run!” yelled Karl. “We need to get to the subway NOW!”

  The sounds of shrieking and general pandemonium got louder behind them.

  I’m a fucking stripper. This is not the way it’s supposed to be! I grind my ass on rich, gross-ass douchebags for twenty bucks a song in the financial district. I’m never, ever going to complain about that again. I’m sorry! Life is good! I won’t complain anymore! Fuck. I’m in the “bargaining” stage of grief. When do I die?

  Trent slid over the hood of a car, pointing his carbine to the sky. He did this so fluidly, it was as if the car wasn’t there. He briefly turned to Callie as he sprinted forward. “Move that ass!”

  Is he talking to me? Am I not running fast enough? Fuck, why am I hyper-analyzing this? Not the time! Just before the briefing, Callie had eaten half a pot brownie she had found in her purse. The brownie was wrapped in grandma-style plastic from over two weeks ago.

  When Trent turned back, another victim lunged for him. “MOTHER! FUCKER!” Trent yelled in distinct syllables. He drove his shoulder into his attacker to create space, then drove his bayonet upward through the bottom of the man’s chin. Flicking the selector lever on his M4 from safe to fire, he fired a round toward the sky. The man’s head exploded like a water balloon.

  At what point does this stop being horrifying? Whatever, only three more blocks!

  Karl and Jack pressed onward along Central Park West, firing controlled pairs in the same manner as Trent. To Callie, this unique, horrifying skill was also fascinating. She wondered why some people became cold-blooded killers and others didn’t. What causes such a broad spectrum in human nature? I get that they’re trained, but come on. There’s a thing these people have. Do I have it? What IS that thing? How do they develop it? Do they get that way by being forced into situations like this?

  “Get down the fucking stairs and jump the turnstile!” said Jack. “Go! We have a thousand fucking people breathing down our necks!” He glared at Callie. “Get the fuck over here! Pay attention! Trent, control this fucking woman please!”

  Trent goon-handed Callie by the crook of her left arm and nearly threw her down the stairs leading to the 72nd Street Subway Station. “Move it!” he yelled. “Jump over the turnstiles! They’re right fucking behind us! Callie, move that ass!”

  Fuck. FOCUS BITCH. “Right, I got this!” Clutching her satchel like a football, Callie sprinted ahead and jumped the turnstile. Without thinking she turned, held up her pistol and flicked the safety, exposing the red dot. She fired tight groups into the chests of two of their assailants, allowing Trent, Jack, Karl, and Harrison to jump to the relative safety the turnstile would provide from those affected by the phenomenon.

  Ronak lumbered slowly behind the humans, smashing an attacker’s head to mush with one clean swipe of his massive a
rm. As he approached the emergency exit door, he leaned back and plunged his foot forward in a kicking motion. The door exploded off its metal hinges; it would have hit the group if not for the thick power, security, and fire alarm cabling snapping at the last second to slow its momentum. “My apologies,” he said in his normal plain, calm voice. He spun around and punched a hole through the face of another attacker.

  Holy shit, dude’s all like, “This is SPARTA!” Awesome!

  “Don’t just stare at it, eat it!” yelled Trent. “Get into the goddamn tunnel you stupid dipshits! Follow me!”

  Did he just make an American Psycho reference?

  Trent jumped down onto the tracks and over the dividing pieces of rail and electrical supply, onto the northbound track. He scurried to his right as his hand scraped the gravel of the tunnel while he stumbled. The group followed, sprinting down the tunnel, into the darkness. There was no residual moonlight or smoldering flames to illuminate the area. Slowly, one-by-one, Surefire flashlights came on like fireflies at dusk, brightly illuminating the tunnel. Callie figured she should have known better than to eat cannabis before a tier-one air assault to kick-start the process of saving the world. She was suddenly focused on all the lights and what they illuminated. It was psychedelic; she no longer felt herself walking and looking at everything. Instead, she felt as if she were playing a part in a narrative. She was ready for anything.

  “Everyone with a flashlight, let’s go two-up, two-down,” said Jack. The group settled into a pattern of illuminating the way forward. This dude is a total tool, but whatever. Sometimes being that much of an anal douche is worthwhile. Ha! Worthwhile when you’re a stripper who ate a pot brownie right before going on a mission with the military. Thoughts that seemed to develop over eons passed in a single step forward into the unsettling subterranean darkness.

  “Major Rugerman, would you mind?” said Ronak.

  “Mind what?”

  “If I illuminated our path forward?”

  “Go for it, man.”

  Ronak repeated what he’d done at the briefing with his hand, moving it swiftly across his thigh in two directions. The orb reemerged and floated to the ceiling, shining bright as a stadium light in all directions. It moved slowly, at a set pace. Callie’s eyes hurt looking at it.

  HOLY SHIT. GOING ON THIS FUCKING HELICOPTER RIDE WAS THE BEST IDEA EVER.

  Callie’s military companions took stock of everyone present and fell into a diamond-shaped formation around both her and Ronak. Karl and Harrison were to the front and rear,Trent and Jack to the sides. The soldiers did not make any mention of their positions.

  They didn’t even talk. They just did that thing where they shut up and moved to where they knew they should go. I know for a fact three of these four people haven’t seen each other in years. How are they so coordinated? I wish I was that close to people…

  The group traveled another thirty paces north through the tunnel, looking for the next station and its underground entrance to the museum. Karl halted the group by raising his non-firing left hand to the ceiling. He nodded his head forward, indicating the tangled network of crashed trains along an undetermined length of tunnel. He spoke significantly louder than was warranted in a tactical scenario. “Christ, whatever. Fuck this shit!” He yanked the rear subway door of what was once a B-train. As the door flung open, he fell back on his ass in the most ungraceful way possible.

  “Come on, man!” Jack said. “There was like a thousand of those things behind us! Stay quiet!”

  The low-pitched hum from many hours ago echoed in Callie’s head. “Guys, can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” said Harrison.

  “That low-pitched sound. I’ve been hearing it off and on throughout the last day or so. It sounds like the lowest note you’d be able to play on a tuba.”

  No one said anything.

  Great, I AM going fucking crazy.

  Just then, there came a scurrying sound from the trains and debris clogging the tunnel. Callie’s companions whirled their beams of light around to pinpoint the source, but failed to see anything. The scurrying sound increased until the entire tunnel sounded like a concrete rainforest.

  “Well, the only way out is through,” said Karl.

  Trent ran to the entrance of the subway car and got in position to boost Karl up through the door. Karl climbed up the angled entrance at the back of the B-train. He leveraged the rear right support pole and bench seat to balance himself as he walked through the twisted labyrinth of public transport.

  Gun to your head - Port Authority at rush hour or this bullshit?

  Before Callie knew it, Trent’s hands gripped the bottom of her left boot as she pushed up and grabbed the same support pole as Karl. She pulled herself up effortlessly and swung to the downward facing bench seat and windows. She drew her weapon and held it low, her right index finger caressing the slide assembly. Hey mom, thought I’d never amount to anything? Guess what, cunt? I’m saving the fucking world right now. How’s your revolving door of dick, booze, and meth? Callie chuckled and wondered if her mother was even alive. Then the cannabis high yanked her in another direction. She thought about James O’Hara. She wondered if he was still alive. STOP IT, BITCH. Don’t get all stupid right now.

  “Let’s keep moving,” said Jack.

  There was complete silence except for the group’s footsteps clanking against the floor of the subway cars. By the time they made it to the third train car they were still off the rails, but the train as a whole was fairly level.

  Shit. I don’t feel well. Callie was terrified. She’d known something wasn’t right when she’d woken up in the hospital morgue. Her experience in the aid station did nothing to appease that anxiety. Her stomach sank; she was forced to take a knee. Her vision blurred. She could tell Trent was right behind her trying to see what was wrong, but she couldn’t hear any words, nor could she respond. The walls of the subway car began emitting a viscous, dark, red liquid that oozed down to the floor. It was a sticky liquid that enveloped the soles of her boots and her left hand, which was supporting her weight. Oh god, is this blood? The floor had only a slight angle, but it was enough to accelerate the flow of liquid meandering toward the back of the train. The room is spinning. What the hell is going on?

  “Hello, Callie. It’s been quite a while. Tell your mother thanks again for the casserole dish. Wasn’t that a lovely barbecue? What a joy it is to live in such a safe and clean neighborhood, with such good people who like to spend time with each other. Isn’t it nice to have this sense of community?”

  Why the fuck am I in Mr. O’Hara’s garage back home? This makes no sense! Everything had an ominous red tint to it. It was far too hot to be Ohio. Why the fuck does Ohio feel like a sauna? This isn’t right!

  “Come here, Ms. Kennedy. You like treats, don’t you? Of course you do. You liked them the other night after you left work, didn’t you?”

  This makes no sense! Fuck, I’ve been so caught up in the last day that I haven’t even figured out what happened to me yet!

  O’Hara walked over to her and placed his thick hand over her shoulder and neck.

  I don’t feel like I had sex! I haven’t had sex in years!

  The thick, meaty hand made Callie shudder. Everything from her past flooded her brain. Oh god, it’s happening again! NO! DON’T DO IT! MOM – HELP! WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?

  O’Hara extended his opposite hand around Callie’s other shoulder in the hot, red darkness. Tears streamed down Callie’s face; her lip quivered. Why am I here? What happened to me the other night? She expected the familiar horror that was coming.

  Just then a hint of a human voice pierced through the murkiness. “Callie, you got this. You can either let the situation control you, or tell the situation to go fuck itself. I believe in you.” It was Trent. He had leaned down to see what was wrong and was whispering in her ear.

  I AM better than this! I get it now. This is a test. Just a second ago I said “it’s happening again.” N
ot “a similar thing is happening” - the exact thing that happened in the past. This is a fucking test! Callie broke the pedophile’s grip and walked casually to the kitchen. Bits of meat, bone, and body fluid were all over the floor leading to the kitchen. It got worse and worse the deeper she walked into the house. The only way out is through, right? The kitchen smelled like week-old rotten vegetables in a garbage can. The sounds of children screaming and people having sex filled the home, making it feel like a Roman orgy combined with a “Chuck-E-Cheese” of sexual torture for children. A woman’s body hung from a meat hook next to the refrigerator. Her face was smashed in and her body cut with hundreds of razor-thin slices. What the fuck? This is NOT real. His house never looked like a goddamn meat packing plant! This isn’t passing the common sense test.

  “Sweetheart, where did you run off to?” O’Hara’s voice echoed from the other room.

  Fuck no, dude. Not this fucking time. I win this time. Just wait and see. Callie grabbed the largest knife she could find from the magnetized wall rack opposite the hanging body. She tucked it into the sleeve of her leather jacket, gripping the handle discreetly. “I’m right here, James. I love treats, baby. Do you like me? I like you.” Her stomach was a knot as she caressed his fat face just above his lips, down his chin, and along his chest, using her two forefingers. When she got to his abdomen she went lower, teasing his dick a little. He was flabbergasted. I guess little kids usually take more work. Christ, I know that look from work. He is SO about to cum. Callie removed her hand from his penis, gripped the back of his neck and jammed her tongue down his throat. His mouth tasted like old coffee and Polish sausage with sauerkraut.

  O’Hara was in heaven. Callie dropped to her knees and unbuckled his pants. The smell of his unkempt, sweaty groin was even worse than the taste of the kiss. It smelled as if he used his underpants to store year-old brie cheese. She pulled down his stained white briefs; his pathetically small, schmegma-laden dick was fully erect. Callie breathed on it lightly. O’Hara moaned. My turn, dickhead. “I love you, James. I need you. It’s always been you, baby.”