EnEmE: Fall Of Man

by R. G. Beckwith

  Tucked behind the island away from the sight of the large dining room windows, Alvarez winced as he completed stitching the front side of his wound, where the bullet had passed through. I reached out and pulled the handle on the immaculate stainless steel, double wide refrigerator that towered before us. Light from the windows reflected off of it, shining like a beacon to a sailor in a storm.

  “Madre de Dios!” Alvarez exclaimed, dropping the bandages that he held in his hand, astonished at what was inside.

  A fully stocked fridge. If we could want it, it was there. A wide variety of fresh meats and produce. Some very expensive, high quality cheeses and pates. Wine, grape juice (the good kind, made from real grapes), even a six-pack of Heineken.

  We looked at each other and started giggling like school boys.

  We each downed at least a pound of cold cuts and a beer.

  Happy to have food in our stomachs for the first time since the world went crazy, we were a little giddy.

  As I finished the last section of a delicious, seedless orange, I looked over at a slatted door in the corner of the kitchen, then back at Alvarez who then looked at the door and looked at me.

  “A pantry!” we both said simultaneously.

  We cautiously looked out over the surface of the island, toward the dining room windows, and when we were sure the coast was clear, we excitedly crawled over to the pantry door.

  I reached out and pulled it quickly. The metal door rails squeaked and the door slid aside.

  “That’s our food, you crazy alien sons a bitches!” a voice screamed.

  I saw a large black frying pan flying through the air. It missed my face by less than an inch, thanks to Alvarez’s quick reflexes; he had grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me backward just in time to save my face from a collision with the pan.

  A very dark, rotund middle-aged black man was attached to the handle of the pan, his arm following the swing more as if the pan swung him than the other way around. Alvarez levelled his gun as the short, pear-shaped man began to rear back with the frying pan again, this time with both hands firmly on the handle. I stretched forward and grabbed the man's arm at the height of its arc, he struggled and stepped forward, placed his leg between mine. We tumbled to the floor and I found myself wrestling the pan from his grip and throwing it away. The man looked up at me with a defeated expression. Wisps of white hair that had started to crop up in his goatee, matching the ones on his temples.,

  “We’re not here to hurt you!” I screamed at the man after I disarmed him. “We’re not part of the group that’s been rounding up people.”

  “Oh, and I’m just supposed to believe that from a guy that suits up like a commando and beats old men to the ground. In MY OWN HOUSE!” The man replied, raising his voice for emphasis at the end.

  “No, no, we…didn’t mean for this to happen...we’re on the run, heading to the Coliseum to find survivors.” I replied. “I’m sorry…my name is Jace…this is Alvarez. We’re here to help.”

  “Help, my ass. You wanna help, get up offa me.” The man retorted. “You wanna help, help an old man up.”

  I couldn’t help but grin to myself as I helped the man up. His waddle reminded me very much of a black Danny DeVito as he got to his feet.

  “How did you know that aliens were behind this?” I asked, then paused. “Sorry, sir, what’s your name?”

  “Whatta ya mean, ‘How did I know?’ Ain’t it always aliens? Ain’t you ever seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers?” The man raised an eyebrow, looking sternly at us.

  Alvarez and I looked at each other and stifled a small chuckle before I turned back to the man in front of us.

  “Ha, ha, ha. You think that’s funny, there’s something wrong in your head.” said the man. “You wanna introduction? My name is Earl, yeah, like the TV show, ha ha ha; I suppose you think that’s funny too.”

  “I’m sorry, Earl, we didn’t mean to upset you,” I said.

  Then something dawned on me.

  “You said ‘our.’ ‘Our food.’ Who’s ‘our’?” I asked.

  Earl only looked past me at Alvarez, who I realized was still staring into the pantry, pointing his rifle. I turned and peered into the pantry. It was much larger inside than it looked on the outside. It was a huge walk-in pantry that filled the space behind the kitchen wall. Inside huddled a group of at least twelve survivors.

  Before I could think any further on the matter, we heard the familiar rumble of a tank, very close to the house, vibrating the dishes in the cabinets. I quickly shuffled over to the dining room window. I looked around, saw nothing. I looked to the left, nothing. As I turned my gaze back to the right I saw a host soldier stepping out from the side of the building, stepping into my field of vision. I knew he was about to see me, and I’d made a rookie mistake. I was standing in the centre of the giant dining room window, too far from the safety of the window frame to dive out of the way without being seen. I froze. Before the host soldier could see me, a strong, firm hand gripped my shoulder and threw me hard to the floor.

  Puzzled, I regained my bearings as my vision focused on my hostile savior.

  I was shocked into silence.

  I recognized the lithe, redheaded form turned away from me, ducking beside the window, keeping an eye out for the enemy.

  “Lacy?” I muttered

  She tensed, looking irritated; she looked at me. Her eyes tightened, irritated over solid black eyes.

  She hissed at me, “I’m not Lacy.”

  Chapter 11 – Kiebler’s Team

  We hustled down the tunnel at a quick pace. I struggled to keep pace with the well-toned military men. I quickly stole a glance back at Jace and Alvarez as they walked in the other direction, toward light and smoke and potential death. Jace looked back at me and we held each other’s eyes for a moment. It felt longer than the second that it actually lasted, but in that second, I felt like we were making a promise that we’d see each other again.

  I lost sight of them as they exited into the glaring light of day and Hauer hustled me around a turn in the tunnel.

  He looked at me sideways without slowing.

  “I need your head in the game, Doc,” was all that the battle worn soldier said.

  We picked up the pace, working our way down the dark tunnel, moving past a series of smaller openings, drainage ports coming from other tunnels. We moved toward the light coming from a manhole cover above us.

  Hauer cautiously climbed the ladder and pushed the manhole cover slowly upward. Before he could get the lid up in order to look around, something pulled it from his hands. A host soldier hefted the heavy chunk of steel over its head, bellowing loudly with anger, before slamming the lid down hard at the surprised soldier.

  Luckily, Hauer ducked down quickly, avoiding the hunk of metal that was meant to cave his head in. Freeman, who was covering him, released a burst of rifle fire that left the dead host soldier slumped over the opening to the surface.

  Hauer quickly jumped down, eyes still wide from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

  “Keep going. This isn’t the one we want; it opens into the exterior parking lot.” Hauer barked.

  The tunnel erupted with rifle fire and energy bursts. Pieces of metal and concrete fell from the ceiling, slamming into the floor of the tunnel. Fragments of rock and metal showered down, scratching our faces and hands as we ducked to protect ourselves.

  A squadron of host soldiers marched through the tunnel toward us. Hauer opened up a steady stream of fire from his AK-47, mowing down several of our pursuers.

  “Keep going!” Hauer barked at me and Freeman. Without hesitation or conversation Freeman reached back and dragged me forward, already picking up his pace. We were soon sprinting at full speed down the tunnel, sounds or gunfire and explosions echoing behind us.

  Behind us . . .

  An explosion knocked Hauer down, allowing a host soldier to press the advantage, sprinting up to and towering over the Master Sergeant. Hauer reached for his rifle,
just in time for it to be quickly covered by the soldier’s heavily armored boot. As the host soldier pointed his gun, aiming between Hauer’s eyes point blank, the large butt of a laser rifle jutted down from the open manhole. The rifle struck the host soldier hard in the head, knocking it backward.

  We finally reached another manhole, dim light seeping down into the tunnel. I tried to look back for a moment, but before I could, Freeman grabbed my wrist firmly and pulled.

  “We don’t’ have time.” Freeman said sternly.

  We slowly climbed up the ladder toward the cover Freeman led, climbing one-handed with his rifle at the ready, with me close behind.

  He slowly pressed the cover open with his rifle ready. More explosions rocked the tunnel from behind us. We surfaced in the parking garage of the hospital, Freeman leading the way, viewing every corner of the apparently empty garage, through the lens of his rifle scope.

  As we cautiously moved toward the hospital entrance, we saw the two helmeted host soldier heads, complete with armored torsos and rifles held at the ready, appear from the corridor on the other side of the large glass automatic doors.

  Freeman grabbed my arm, dragging me behind a mini-van. He held his rifle ready in one hand, a finger to his mouth signalling to be quiet with the other hand.

  We heard the “Whoosh” of the sliding doors opening, but no other sounds of voices or gunfire. From our vantage point, peering out from under the van, we could see the soldiers doing their rounds. Apparently they had not seen us approaching.

  We held our breath for a tense moment.

  “Fack you, ya bloody bastards!” A voice suddenly rang off the walls. “BANANA BENDER!” The accent sounded Australian.

  We peered toward the shouting voice and saw a scraggly, skinny, red-headed man, wearing a sweat-stained shirt. He was holding a baseball bat studded with a railway spike as he ran full tilt at the soldiers.

  It’s safe to say that the soldiers were as surprised as Freeman and I were. All four of us seemed frozen in a daze, holding our breath.

  The skinny man ran right up and belted one of the soldiers across the head, a loud clang echoing off the helmet as it rocked sideways. The other soldier quickly ploughed the butt of his energy rifle into the side of the Aussie’s head.

  The rebel fell to the pavement hard, his bat clattering and then rolling out of reach.

  The now familiar hum of the energy charge could be heard as both host soldiers stood over the young man. He glared back defiantly, wisps of dirty, unkempt hair sticking up like giant hornet stingers, pointing back at his assassins.

  Gunfire tore through the parking garage, cutting the host soldiers in half before their rifles could charge. Freeman leaned against the minivan, smoke slowly floating upwards from the barrel of his gun.

  We quickly walked toward the young man who had covered his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself when the bullets had begun to fly. He looked around, surprised to be alive, and. realizing that he’d been saved. His face beamed at Freeman and I as we helped him to his feet.

  “You’ve saved me, mate,” he said, still surprised.

  “Welcome to the resistance,” said Freeman. “I’m Sergeant Freeman, and this is Dr. Kiebler,” he said, gesturing to me.

  “Hi,” I said, waving and smiling, nervously.

  “Bloody pleasha, folks,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake. “My name’s Jessie . . . DOG SHIT . . .Banyan.”

  Freeman had a puzzled expression on his face, probably because of the odd use of the expletive. I’m sure I did as well, but the expression must have changed when my breath stopped and my blood ran cold when I heard the man’s last name. Banyan, like Jace’s and my dead friend.

  “Ooookay…” said Freeman.

  “So, is this all of the resistance?” Banyan asked.

  “No,” I replied. “There are more people…coming.”

  “ That’s . . WHORE . . good ta hear!” Banyan responded.

  Freeman and I looked at each other. Before I could think of a polite way to ask, Freeman just came out with it.

  “What’s with all the swearing, buddy?” asked Freeman. “One of those drones knock a screw loose or somethin’?”

  “Ah, shite, don’t mind the cursing, I don’t even . . . ARSEHOLE . . . realize I do it half the time anymore,” said Banyan. “I’ve got a case of the Tourettes or as me mah called it the Shite Head.”

  Assuming that he had had another outburst from his disease I politely asked, “What head?”

  “Shite Head.” Banyan responded nonchalantly. “That wasn’t Tourettes; me mah was a real bitch.”

  “PIG’S ARSE” Banyan shouted as we walked towards the sliding doors of the hospital. “Ah, but me uncle, he’s a right good fella. He’s the reason I came over ta America in the first place. He’s always been there to help me no matter which windin’ path I took in this journey called . . . BALLS . . . life.”

  I could tell despite the vulgarity coming from Banyan that his feelings and care for his uncle were genuine. I dreaded telling him that his uncle was dead.

  “I was named after me uncle, ya know?” said Banyann. “Ah, but that was before me mah knew about me old cracked noodle. If it hadn’t been for me Uncle Jessie, she probably woulda left me in the outback long ago and claimed her crazy son had just gone walkabout.”

  “It’s a shame that some people can’t see the value in those who have a mental disability,” I offered, attempting to comfort the man.

  “Mental disability? Don’t go lumpin’ me in with the rest ah those retads. . . PISS CHRIST!” The younger Banyan replied. “I just curse a bit. No worse than any LAME DILL sailor!”

  Freeman couldn’t help but laugh. Banyan and I looked at each other and chuckled, too.

  “Anyway, me uncle’s a hotshot surgeon in this here hospital, and I thought if anyone’s gonna be able to help me survive all this craziness, it’s him,” said Banyan. “Plus he can get me more of me medy’s, to help control me outbursts.”

  The hospital doors slid open with a quiet “whoosh” as we entered a very empty, very silent corridor.

  Only a few yards into the hallway, we couldn’t do anything but watch as a squadron of five host soldiers quickly rounded a corner in the distance, turning directly at us.

  “Halt!” one of them shouted, bringing the squad to a stop, weapons drawn.

  Freeman answered with a volley of gunfire that left two of the host soldiers dead or injured. The rest opened fire. Freeman did a combat roll into an adjoining corridor on the left while Banyan and I scrambled for cover into the one on the right.

  Gunfire erupted all around us. Energy balls exploded the plaster in the walls above us, showering us in a white powder.

  “BLOODY SHITE!” Banyan yelled, barely audible over the sounds of chaos.

  Freeman continued to return fire and I pulled out a micro-Uzi. I turned to look back at Banyan as we lay on the corridor floor. His previous good nature was gone, his face was filled with fear. Sweat ran down his forehead and his breathing had become incredibly fast.

  “I need you to calm down and take this,” I said, holding out the gun. “If we don’t kill them, they will kill us. I’ve seen enough so far that I have no doubt.”

  He took it from my hand reluctantly, refusing to grip his fingers around the handle.

  “Ah geez, fuck.” said Banyan. “I don’t know. Guns ain’t me style, ya know. Me unc was always a pacifist and he always taught me that there was a better way. Ya know? That blitz in the garage, it was just me last desperate attempt.”

  I pulled a grenade from my belt, popped the latch, and tossed it blindly into the hallway. An explosion rocked the hallway and shook the ground. All seemed quiet for a second, and then the gunfire continued from the other side. If I’d taken any of them out, it hadn’t been all of them.

  I looked at Banyan and made the decision.

  “Your uncle, he was a surgeon here, right?” I asked him.

  “Yeah,” Banyan said, a curious
look crossing his face.

  “Was he sort of slender, balding, white hair, sick sense of humour, but charming? Worked in the E.R. as an emergency surgeon? Is that what your uncle was like?”

  “Yeah, that’s my Uncle Jessie,” he said. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

  I reached a hand out, touching his in comfort and preparing him for what I was about to say.

  “Your uncle was a brave, smart, and caring man. I met him. If it wasn’t for him, my friends and I probably wouldn’t have lived long enough to be here now,” I explained, holding the younger Banyan’s fearful gaze. “Your uncle was a hero, and I saw these things, whatever they are, kill him this morning in cold blood.”