“No problem, sir.”It was an automatic response.
“Right down the center,” Brett was describing what he needed more for himself than the private. It suddenly occurred to Symons how breathless he was. “We need as much room as we can between us and when that grenade goes off.”
“You can count on me, sir.” Again, an automatic response. Christ, all our lives are depending on a kid just out of high school. Symons took a deep breath and comforted himself that this wasn’t the first time this had happened. In fact, it was our history.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“In just a minute you are going hear an explosion and gun fire.” Pinder said at the top of his voice. “I need you all to keep your heads down when we tell you.” At that moment, 40 yards away Esterhaus was giving the same order.
Esterhaus watched as Mason pulled the M320 out of its holster and slipped it under the barrel of his M16A3. It was a squat little weapon that loaded from the side. The private secured the weapon, unlocked the barrel, opened it and cocked the firing mechanism carefully. With equal measures of speed and dexterity he closed the barrel and took aim.
“Whenever you’re ready, private.” Esterhaus tried to sound calm. “Make it a good one.”
“Yes sir,” Damn the kid sounded calm as he lined up the night sight. It struck Mason as strange that there was barely anything on the tiny scope. Cold flesh, he thought with a shiver and pulled the trigger.
“DOWN!”
The M320 grenade armed itself after 30 yards and just 140 yards later made contact with the thigh of a man in a city worker’s suit. The anti-personal grenade was loaded with three pounds of explosives. It detonated on impact. The man’s body did not vaporize. Instead, the impact cut his body into the smallest of fragments while the shrapnel splayed out in all directions. Behind the city worker, the little girl with the bunny pigtails was licking blood off her fingers when particles from the grenade decapitated her and shattered her face into small bits of flesh and bone. A man in blue jeans and a Metallica t-shirt looked down at his legs in curiosity as they had just been amputated at the knee. His body fell forward to the pavement. For a second, instinct surveyed his situation and his hands reached forward and started to pull his body forward. The dark liquid line that marked his trail was lost in the blackness.
It didn’t look like the movies. There was no time to watch the approaching cloud of smoke and debris. One second it was coming and a hyper moment later it was all around you. The grit in your eyes, mouth and hair was nothing compared to the slow drumming in your ears that had replaced all sound momentarily. It felt like being under water. When the sound returned it was loud. Very loud. People knelt in shock and tried to breathe through the dirty atmosphere. They wheezed, gasped and cried. Brett began to make his way back to Esterhaus.
Jesus Christ, he realized his mistake. How the hell are we gonna see them coming?
“Sergeant Esterhaus!” He called out blindly.
“Here, sir!” An appendage waved in the flashlight gloom.
“Let’s go,” Brett raised his voice again over the rising and falling volume of human chaos and fear. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “We need to move.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately, sir.” Esterhaus remarked while he picked up what gear he could and began backing up.
“Don’t I know it.” Symons spoke absently as he prepared to speak into his radio. “Private Moshood?”
“Yes sir,” Moshood appeared behind Brett in the darkness. Christ, Symons worried. We can’t see a fucking thing down here.
“We’re pulling back,” Brett explained. “we’re gonna need you and Youngtree to set up the big dawg.”
“Sounds good, sir.”
“How about a second grenade?” Esterhaus offered as he and Mason passed by in the murky fog of smoke, dust and chaos.
“No,” Brett’s voice was distant and a few degrees above chilled. There was a noise that was making its way to his ears. It had been there for awhile but now he had a chance to focus on its meaning. Water. It was the sound of pouring water. Like you would hear in the morning when someone was in the shower and the world was under control and progressing normally. He looked back into the direction they had come to see a brick lying in the middle of the passage.
It wasn’t there before. Brett saw the brick fade into darkness as they moved farther down the tunnel. It came from the roof and we’re right under the fucking Chicago River and now you hear the sound of water. He felt cold. You had no choice. You have to slow them down. He chanced another look over his shoulder. Like that’s gonna really matter if that roof caves in.
“Sergeant Symons?” It was Pinder. Please, some good news.
“Yes sir.”
“A few minutes ago Mr. Bestoni informed us we have Wi-Fi.” Pinder paused for a breath. “I think we’re close.”
“Great to hear, sir”
There was a high pitched voice in the back ground. Bradley, easily it was Bradley. Brett kept his pace up the tunnel as he waited. Every few seconds, he chanced a glance over his shoulder. The darkness tried to play on his fears amid the slow dancing wisps of smoke that could almost be gossamer. He looked hard amid the slowly whirling tendrils. Nothing……yet.
“Mr. Symons,” Pinder again.
“Yes sir,”
“We have run into a brick wall.” Pinder reported. “Private Bradley is already at work on it.”
“Does it look like we can break through?” Symons had a claustrophobic moment of feeling trapped. Christ, if that’s how Wilgen felt all the time no wonder she tried to hide. God, poor girl.
“We’ll know soon enough.” Pinder was really trying to be calm about this. Hell, aren’t we all? “I’ve sent a runner back with all the ammunition we can spare up here.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brett relayed quickly what he hoped to achieve and was met by a fleeting second of silence.
“Well,” Pinder seemed to be swallowing hard. “Its’ not like we have a lot of options.”
“No sir.” Brett’s voice was distant in submissive agreement. “We could use two axes back here if you can spare them.”
You got it.” Pinder understood. They were getting close and ammunition was low.
The first thing that went right was Moshood. As Brett and a few stragglers headed down the tunnel he spied the big man, his assistant and the heavy machine gun exactly where he needed it. Moshood gave a slow nod in his direction. Brett returned the gesture and knelt down beside him.
“Already, sir.” Moshood calmly reported.
“Good, when you start to hear them.” Brett explained intently. “Open fire.”
“Sir? “ Moshood inclined his head slightly. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“When you hear them I want you to open fire and aim low.” Brett kept his tone slow and careful. He didn’t have a lot of time and he knew it.
“Aim low?”
“I want you to cut ‘em off at the knees, Private Moshood.” Brett spoke the sentence like it was some kind of staccato rhythm.
“That’ll slow ‘em down, sir.” Moshood nodded. “Shall I conserve ammo?”
“No.” Brett shook his head and put his hand on his shoulder . “Everything you’ve got.” Youngtree nodded in confirmation.
“Listen up, guys.” Symons was now talking to a dozen or so soldiers who had become shadows in the dark. Flashlights did little to penetrate the dust and floating debris. The air felt heavy in his lungs as he took a deep breath and stood up. “Private Moshood will be the first to open up. When he does.” Brett paused and made as much eye contact as he could. “You are to hold your fire. I repeat hold your fire.”He surveyed the shapes and silhouettes in the darkness and saw heads begin to nod. Okay, then.
“When you see the ones walking toward you. Let ‘em have it.” Symons punched the air slowly to make his point. “Go for the head. Remember what you’ve been told.”
“Go for the head. Yes sir.”
We’ve got to slow
them down.”
“What’s taking them so long?” Esterhaus bit his lip nervously.
“I don’t know.” Brett had an afterthought to his strategy and tapped his radio. “Captain Pinder?”
“Yes Sergeant.”
“How’s it going, sir?” Brett kept his eye on the smoky darkness. Where were they?
“We’re making progress.” Pinder had to speak louder over the bricks and mortar chipping away. “Have you seen them yet?”
“No sir,” Symons reported. The careful tendrils of smoke seemed to almost be alive as they explored the atmosphere in the tunnel. Catching the slightest motion through the thick dust and following along the eddies and currents of air.
Air……..
He had a flash back. There they were, outside covered in concrete dust. The face that was completely masked in debris slowly turning from side to side, searching for something that was there just an increment in time before. Down here sight and smell were suddenly gone in the thunder flash of the grenade launcher.
The scent they were following would wink out as the smoke masked the smell of their prey, The trail would come to an abrupt end. They would stand still for a moment, reorienting, listening, confused. Would they remember what they had been pursuing? Maybe they were just a few yards away, staring silently into the raven blackness as tendrils of smoke and dust danced about them. A program interrupted. Now, awaiting a reboot from their senses.
He slowly turned his head sideways in thought at the chasm before him. But, maybe they can hear us. Can they hear us over the rushing water? The radios, our voices and even the bricks as they slowly submit to gravity and fall?
The first hand that pushed back the dark was a lot closer than he imagined. Brett panicked and ripped off a burst that caught a man wearing an oversized shirt. The bullets stitched a brief pattern across his chest as he staggered back. Large tears seemed to have been torn open in a frenzy for his kidneys and liver. Black, dark colored gouges several inches deep peeked out from the rips and holes in the fabric. Two more M16A3’s opened up and the man’s face disappeared in an explosion of black fluid.
“Hold your fire!” Brett’s voice echoed down the tunnel. Well. If they couldn’t hear us before they sure as hell can hear us now. “Private Moshood, Nice and low. Fire!”
The sound of the heavy machine gun was rolling thunder compared to the short, staccato interjections of the M16A3. It was like a singer of a different octave and rhythm. It was a war drum gone mad. The muzzle flash lit up the gray smoky air with a flame that was almost double the length of a finger. Its fire rate was 550 to 650 rounds per minute. The M240 was one of the few American weapons that fired the much larger 7.62 shell. A veritable wall of steel in an enclosed tunnel like this.
They felt no pain. They did not scream when the shell that was as long as an index finger cut through the cartilage of their thighs and separated bone and muscle with explosive force. They felt nothing when the knees they were walking on imploded, sending bone fragments and tissue to spatter against the tunnel walls. The only register was a change in functionality. A brief and disorienting blink of an eye. The eyes saw the floor in front of their face and ascertained a change. It could not see its prey, but it didn’t have to. It inhaled and tested the air, carefully sifting through the grit and cordite of weapons fire and found……yes……that …..the satisfaction of the hunger was just ahead. The hands pulled the body forward. Something clung to its knee cap like a piece of twine that catches you for a moment and holds you back. It pushed forward
harder and the flesh that held its lower leg to the knee bone succumbed to the pressure and gave way. It howled in anticipation as its fingers clumsily picked up speed. It crawled over a cold, thrashing figure that had broken an arm in its fall. Neither registered the contact. They were a few among the many. Like beetles and centipedes of human flesh they found a way to keep moving toward the hunger.
Footfalls stepped on its back and another set of smaller feet stumbled over him and landed on his shoulder. The obstacles, impediments and agony did not register in this narrow emotional focus. Just the hunger, just the hunger.
“I’m empty,” Moshood called out. “Get me the next drum.”
“That’s it, sir.” Youngtree reported as the finger of light from the M240 extinguished. “There is no more.”
“You wanted a couple of axes, sir?” A voice from the dark spoke. Brett extended his right arm and felt the smooth wooden handles in his hand without taking an eye of the tunnel. Could he hear them? Was the darkness playing tricks? A coldness in his chest that seemed to exit his skin like a thousand worms at the nape of his neck was his answer. The finite hairs of his arms defied gravity.
It was them, they were close.
“When you see them, go for the head.” Brett tried to keep the shakiness from his voice. He could feel it in himself, in everyone around him. This was not like fighting an army, it was not fighting anything they understood. This was different. It was unknown. He almost felt he could kill a thousand only to see more around each and every corner. He grit his teeth and felt the breath exhale hotly from his nostrils.
“Private Moshood, take this.” He dropped the axes and un-slung his M16A3 and passed it over to the large man who was standing up from his firing position.
“Sir?” He accepted the rifle with a blank look.
“You’re a helluva shot.” Brett leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go for the head.”
“Yes sir,” Moshood nodded as his eyes turned to steel.
“Esterhaus,” Symons called out.
“Right here.” Esterhaus was an arms length away. His shape was a spectral image that seemed to weave in and out of the darkness. It felt like reality was a signal losing its clarity.
“There!”
They were like dull shadows against an almost liquid black backdrop as they appeared. First, like wisps of smoke that took shape. Then, as they came closer the appearance became less translucent and more solid. A dozen fingers slightly touched cold metal triggers and swallowed. It was automatic now. Emotions faded and training took over. The finger was ninety degrees perpendicular to the target. Squeeze the trigger, holding it through the shot. They could hear Maggie in their ears, teaching, cajoling, encouraging and sometimes screaming “That’s my ammo you’re wasting, soldier!”
90 degrees, squeeze, hold and acquire the next target.
Silence broke like thunder before a downpour. First one, then another and another finger point of fire appeared in the darkness. The muzzle flashes became random fireflies that danced briefly in life to wink out as more appeared of their kind. A man with a cleanly shaved bald head was struck twice in the forehead as the top part of skull disappeared in the darkness. The dark matter explosion became invisible in the black tapestry. Moshood swore the teeth were still moving as the body fell.
90 degrees, squeeze, hold and acquire the next target.
A woman in a white and lime patterned summer dress was struck in the eye. Her neck snapped back briefly, the second eye burned in the dark before it took 5.6 shell. The mouth became slack and the body fell like an uprooted tree. It landed square on the back of the man with the bald head. A young black man crashed on top of her body with a dark, seeping space where his nose and eyes used to reside.
90 degrees, squeeze, hold and acquire the next target.
An overweight man with long, stringy grey hair had a shell slam into his mouth. The bullet crashed through the back of his neck and severed the spinal cord with an explosive splash. His body rolled forward and landed among the mostly motionless human debris. His mouth was a tattered cave of drooling dark fluid and was slack at the jaw. The upper lips still quivered while the eyes feverishly played about in rage.
“I’m out!”
“I’m out!”
“Empty!”
Bodies………
How can they not feel anything? The occasional hand played pushed through a wedge of torn and tattered humanity. Th
e fingers played about the dark searching for something, anything. The odd limb quivered as the raw signal of adrenaline played through them. Brett’s attention was caught by a leg with a doc martin on it. The ankle seemed to be moving like a small robot. Flexing and un-flexing among the pile. When he inhaled his nostrils caught a smell of bodies that were many things at once. Decaying skin, internal organs and rotting tissue. It was like the sickly sweet smell of a swamp but more pungent. The penetrating acidity of decaying meat. It was a natural order of things. We would all decay to become something else. An enzyme here and protein there. All to start again in another form. Rotting, changing, beginning anew. Is this what was going on here? A natural order of things? An ascendency? He carefully moved closer.
Brett peaked his eyes over the mound and pointed his flashlight down the tunnel. Outlines, contours and profiles. All of this would only buy a few more minutes. The floor seemed like it was alive. A vast, slithering beast. A river of flesh.
The Drumhead Page 23