Switched On

by Franklin Horton

Jim craned to get a look at the man, thus not seeing Kyle was unable to restrain himself. Kyle threw up the rifle Jim had given him and began dumping rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger. This created some confusion among Boss and his men, who had no idea they had combatants inside the wire. It didn’t take them long to adjust.

  Burst of rifle fire erupted from the group and impacts sang out all around Jim’s people.

  “Hit the fucking deck!” Weatherman yelled, grabbing Kyle and shoving him down.

  Boss’s men opened up with full auto, burst-fire, and whatever they had. Holes opened up in transformers all around Jim’s group, spewing oil both onto the ground and onto the men.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Jim said, firing back. “We need better cover.”

  A smoke grenade popped between the groups and fire subsided, but there were enough rounds still flying around that everyone stayed low.

  “What’s going on?” Ford asked.

  “There!” Kyle yelled, spotting a runner to his ten o’clock.

  Ford tore off a shot and hit the man in the hip, dropping him into a screaming mass. A second round from Weatherman shut him up.

  “They’re going for that vehicle,” Ford said.

  Jim saw they were right. The man was running for some type of armored military vehicle.

  Ford tried to stand up and heavy gunfire erupted again, pinning the group down.

  “They’re going to go for it,” Weatherman said. “If they take that vehicle, we’re sitting ducks. We have to beat them there.”

  Jim started to say something but didn’t get a word out before Weatherman was off, sprinting like only a semi-retired farmer can. Boss’s group targeted Weatherman, chasing him with rounds and tearing up the ground at his heels. Jim’s group opened up with all they had, drawing their fire. Weatherman reached the green vehicle, threw open a door, and climbed in.

  The fire dwindled again. Jim took the opportunity to load a fresh mag. He looked at the vehicle and saw movement above it. “What the hell?”

  “Is he trying to climb out?” Ford asked.

  “They had a gun up there,” Kyle said.

  Then Jim saw that was exactly what Weatherman was doing. He’d found the gun inside and was trying to affix it to the ring mount. “You think he knows what he’s doing?”

  “He’s a Marine,” Ford said.

  “A former Marine?” Kyle asked.

  “You’re never a former Marine,” Ford replied. “You’re always a Marine.”

  The smoke was clearing and Boss’s people must have noticed the movement. They began peppering rounds at Weatherman. They were unable to get a clear shot and it didn’t deter the man from his task. All fell silent as the rhythm of the battle hit a lull. Then Jim heard a sound that even he, as a guy who was never a Marine, recognized—the metallic snap of the feed tray cover shutting on a belt-fed machine gun. It brought a smile to Jim’s face and he wondered if the other side heard it. Then from the fog and smoke a voice rang out.

  “You know why they call me the Weatherman?” it yelled. “Because I make it fucking rain!”

  With that battle cry, Weatherman pulled the trigger on the M240 and opened the fires of hell on Boss and his people. Men were scurrying in all directions, diving for fresh cover as the M240 chewed up the crates they hid behind.

  One of the crawling men was cut in half. Another caught rounds across the back that bypassed his armor. Jim felt a weird sensation, a sudden coldness, and wondered for a split second if he’d been hit. The ground looked strange and he reached down to find water.

  Ice cold river water.

  He looked around and saw the leaden reflection of the water coming up all around them. Items were starting to lift from the ground and float away.

  Then Weatherman’s belt ran out and his curses filled the air. Jim threw his rifle up to bridge the gap but he was too late. Two men sprinted from the shattered crates.

  “That’s him!” Kyle yelled, bolting after the retreating men before Jim could pull him back.

  “Fuck!” Ford yelled, starting after him.

  “Watch out, Weatherman!” Jim yelled into his radio. “We have friendlies on the move.”

  “Clear’em out!” Weatherman yelled. “I’m reloaded. We can end this.”

  Jim’s radio chirped. “You’ve got UN guys closing on your six.” It was Gary.

  Jim spun in time to see four men closing at a run, their feet splashing in the rising water. The .338 boomed, catching one of the men in the back and knocking him off his feet. Weatherman heard the transmission too, spinning on the attackers and dropping the hammer. Fire erupted from the barrel and empties clinked off the body of the armored vehicle. The entire line of attackers crumpled into the icy water.

  “I’m going after them!” Jim yelled into his radio. “Cover us.”

  Weatherman went idle with no active targets. Jim could hear him on the radio talking to Gary.

  “Give me a heads-up if you see anything, buddy.”

  “I’m on it,” Gary replied. “Bird is with me and he’s got eyes on.”

  “Bird is the word,” Bird added.

  “Whatever the fuck that means,” Weatherman grunted.

  That water was just above Jim’s ankles now, just enough to slow him down. He’d lost sight of Boss and the other man, but saw Kyle in the distance with Ford just behind him. Gunfire erupted from ahead of him. Kyle leaped for cover behind a front-end loader and Ford was trying to reach him.

  There was a burst of full-auto fire and Ford staggered, his gait going wonky, and then he dropped into the water. Jim took cover, his eyes moving between Ford on the ground and Kyle behind the loader. Kyle threw his AR up over the loader arms and began pounding rounds at Boss. Jim took the opportunity to scurry to Ford and grab him by his drag handle.

  When he got to the closest cover, Jim hit the man with the red lens of his headlamp and saw that his eyes were open and fixed, his mouth a puddle brimming with blood.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  He heard a yell and looked up. He had no idea what had transpired but one of the men Kyle had been chasing now had him in a chokehold while the other was punching him in the face. Jim couldn’t hit the choker at this range but he could damn sure hit the puncher. He raised his rifle and dropped a red dot on the puncher’s neck. He pulled the trigger.

  The puncher flinched and dropped away, running for cover. The round must have hit armor. They took Kyle with them and Jim couldn’t see any of them now.

  “We’ve got more hostiles,” Gary said into the radio. “I count five total.” The .338 Lapua boomed. “Make that four. Four hostiles.”

  30

  The man choking Kyle was not fucking around. He was seriously trying to put Kyle’s lights out. Then he started backing up, dragging Kyle from his feet. Kyle tried to backpedal and keep up with him, but the man tripped over something beneath the water and they both went down. Kyle tried to take advantage of the opportunity and roll away but the man holding him was too fast. A series of stunning elbows pounded his head and left him reeling.

  Then he was being pulled backward through the water, one man on each arm, and they were taking him somewhere. With his arms being tugged over his head, the pain in his ribs was excruciating. He could barely breathe and cried out from the pain, which only earned him a boot to the head.

  They reached a set of metal stairs and began ascending one of the tall structures alongside the smokestacks. He felt himself being pulled from the water, then his feet bumping against steel treads as they dragged him upward. When they reached the first tier, they dropped him onto the catwalk and Boss was on his chest, the tip of a large combat knife resting dead center of Kyle’s forehead.

  “You’re the guy from the substation,” Boss spat. “The witness we left.”

  Kyle’s voice was nearly gone from the choking but he croaked a sound to the affirmative.

  “Didn’t the shit you saw make it clear how serious we are?” Boss asked. “You think we
’re fucking playing?”

  Kyle shook his head, eyes wide. He completely understood they weren’t playing.

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Friends,” Kyle croaked.

  Boss shook his head in disbelief, unable to stop a smile from curling his lips. “Friends?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “What the hell kind of friends do you have?”

  Kyle shrugged, knowing his death was imminent. “Good ones.”

  “Four assholes gnawed up,” Weatherman said into his radio. “Any more coming?”

  “I see no movement,” Bird replied.

  “I only got two ammo cans left,” Weatherman said. “This better be most of the party.”

  “Ford’s dead and they took Kyle,” Jim said over the radio.

  There was no response but Jim could imagine each man cursing and shaking his head.

  “Where’s Hugh?” Bird asked.

  “I assumed he was with you,” Jim replied.

  “Haven’t seen him,” Bird replied.

  “He’ll turn up.”

  “That water is getting higher,” Gary chimed in. “Debris is starting to move around. It could get sketchy over there.”

  “I’m not leaving Kyle,” Jim said. “I know his wife. I know his kids. I couldn’t face them.”

  “You need my help?” Weatherman asked.

  “Not yet. You stay on that gun just in case we get more company.”

  Jim paused and pocketed his radio. He listened intently. The sound of the water was getting louder. It was nearly to his knees now. It was his handiwork but it only increased the pressure of getting the job done. Then he heard a clank, metal on metal. He looked around, trying to pinpoint where it had come from. He heard it again and focused on the network of catwalks and metal stairs near the smokestacks. He heard a grunt of pain and he knew where he had to go.

  The deeper water made progress slow. He couldn’t run in it. He tried a slow jog, moving stiff-legged, and found he was getting closer. Then two things happened in quick succession that changed the game. One, there was a loud pop and the power faded away, leaving the smell of ozone in the air. That brought a smile to his face for just a moment, then the second thing happened. He stepped in a hole that was invisible beneath the surface of the water. That in itself was manageable. He wasn’t injured but dropped to his waist in the frigid water. When he tried to get out, he found his ankle stuck in a steel grating.

  He yanked on it but found no give at all. He bent at the waist and grabbed his foot with both hands, trying to pull it free, only succeeding in soaking himself fully.

  “Shit!” he hissed.

  He tried pushing down with his other foot but felt no movement at all. He bent and felt it again. There was a piece of rebar on either side of his foot pinching his ankle between them. The pressure made it impossible to pull his foot out or to even remove his foot from his boot.

  He was stuck and he was starting to get cold. A chill passed through him and he knew that shivering was not far off. He sucked down his pride and pulled out his radio to call Weatherman in for help. When he pushed the transmit button, he heard nothing. He checked the display and found that his cheap-ass family band radio was full of water. It was dead and completely useless. He drew back his arm and threw it as far into the blackness as he could.

  The grate he stepped in was at least a foot or two below grade. The water was nearly to the bottom of his ribs. He thought of turning his light on and trying to signal for help but he was afraid the only thing he’d catch would be a bullet. Despite his friends and what they’d accomplished today, he suddenly felt very alone. With all the things he’d faced since last summer, with all the expectation he’d die a violent death, he was now facing the possibility that drowning and hypothermia were in a race to see who could kill him first.

  With his hands going numb, Jim groped around the ground, feeling beneath the water for anything that he might be able to use. His hands landed on useless items—rocks, a hardhat being swept away in the floodwaters, and plastic bottles. He felt a nudge at his side. He felt around and discovered a tree branch about four inches in diameter. He started to shove it away, then his impaired mental functioning gave way to a spark of clarity.

  Pry with it.

  There was not enough strength in his hands to make the muscles obey. He pinched the log between two clubbed hands and pulled it to him and shoved the branch into the hole, poking blindly at the grating. He was frustrated and shivering. In a burst of determination, he ducked underwater and guided the end of the branch into the grate beside his foot.

  He burst up from the water, which was now up to his chest. When he shoved against the log with all his might it slid free of the grating without accomplishing anything. Frustrated, he pushed it into the grating again, bearing down with all of his weight to wedge it in. He shoved against it again, levering it like a crowbar, growling with the effort.

  While he didn’t feel like he was making any gains, his foot suddenly came free and he fell to his side in the icy water. He had no time to waste. He was dying, if not dead already. He staggered numbly to his feet, looking for somewhere he might go to get out of the water. He could barely think and his ability to move his body was fading quickly.

  Above him, rising into the dark night sky, were the smokestacks. With the power out, they still poured steam and smoke into the night sky.

  Smoke. Fire.

  He staggered in that direction, certain that somewhere near those smokestacks would be a power generation boiler, which was basically a furnace. There would be heat and lifesaving warmth.

  The building connected to the smokestack was forty long feet away but Jim moved in that direction with dogged determination. A set of concrete steps rose from the water. His stiff legs didn’t want to climb but he pulled on the yellow handrail and managed to get himself up, finally free of the water. It ran from his clothes. His Go Bag was sagging with its weight.

  Jim said a silent prayer, turned on his headlamp, and reached for the doorknob. Fortunately it was a lever handle, more easily manipulated. He had a new appreciation for that.

  And it was unlocked.

  He tried to yank the door open but his muscles did not cooperate. He had to use both hands to open the handle, tug, and then shove his body into the opening. A wave of heat hit him in the face as he collapsed through the door and onto the concrete floor. Tears came with the relief that he might actually survive this night after all. He couldn’t give up yet.

  He got to his knees and dumped his pack, struggling with numb fingers to remove his armor, his sodden coat, and shirt. When all of the upper layers were gone, he started on the bottom—boots, socks, pants, base layer, until he was standing naked in the stark industrial building. While it was damn warm, he had to admit it felt a little strange.

  Grabbing his rifle, he carefully trod barefoot, going further into the building wearing only his headlamp. He was still shivering, but despite the dark and the silence, his body was guiding him toward the warmth. He came to another door, the same industrial steel door as the entrance, painted in the same battleship gray. He opened this door and could hear the sound of the boilers. He didn’t know enough about the facility to know if power was being generated or not but the facility was dark and the lights were not working.

  This room was the warmest yet and he was finally beginning to feel his feet again. It was a painful pins-and-needles sensation that made them difficult to walk on. The room was larger than he could illuminate with his headlamp. He hit the touch pad for his weapon light, hoping the extra money he’d paid for a quality waterproof light had been worth it. He was pleased to see it burst to life. Until it illuminated two foreign soldiers, both staring at this naked intruder in shock.

  Jim flicked the selector and sent a round into each man, then backed up and did it again. It was purely a reaction at this point. Had they been Americans, he hoped he might have paused a bit longer, however, the battle lines were becoming blurred. He checked ea
ch man and confirmed they were dead. Touching their dry clothes, he had a brief thought that he might take them but decided he’d rather be naked. His folks would shoot a foreign soldier on sight. A naked man might make them pause, if for no other reason than to scratch their head in wonder.

  The tip of Boss’s blade rested on Kyle’s forehead. It had pierced the skin and muscle and was resting directly on bone. Kyle was grimacing and blood ran from the wound, tracking down his temple and into one eye.

  “All I have to do is smack the butt of this knife with my fist and you’ve got a lobotomy,” Boss said. “These friends of yours have no idea what they’ve done. They’ve fucked with the federal government and will suffer the full wrath of that government. After I’ve killed you, I’m bringing in air support and I’ll vaporize a circle around this place until I’m fully satisfied.”

  “This place will be underwater by tomorrow,” Kyle said. “It will take months to clean the mud out of everything.”

  Boss gave a sharp twist of the blade, a drilling motion that tore flesh and scraped bone. Kyle screamed in pain. A heavy splashing sound in the darkness drew everyone’s attention. Boss flicked his headlamp on and Kerry did the same.

  Boss motioned into the darkness with a gesture of his head. “See what that was.”

  Kerry nodded, flicked off the safety on his rifle, and fired up his weapon light. He raised it to a high ready position and started down the steps.

  In the darkness below the catwalk, Hugh stood in waist-deep water waiting on the man. He’d thrown a fire extinguisher into the water, trying to imitate the sound of a man moving around. When he saw the approaching light, he eased back into the shadows. The man coming down the steps played his light around in the rising water, looking for anything out of the ordinary. In truth, everything was chaotic. The water bobbed and reflected the light, debris was floating everywhere and bouncing off the structure. A flotilla of steel drums came along and banged off everything in their path. Weird, indecipherable sounds came from everyone.