by James Ryke
“Funny, I was just telling my brother something similar.”
“Neither of you knows your limitations,” Kate said. “Go ahead and lay down. I’ll get you some food from the kitchen.”
Rick’s body did feel heavy, his shoulders were already sagging, but he did not like the fact that he was being told to rest—especially from Kate. Despite the internal protests in his head, he did not stop her when she took the M4 from his shoulder. He pulled his sweaty military boots from his feet and took off his shirt, revealing his muscular frame. He usually slept with no shirt at all, but with Kate still in his curtained room, he pulled a clean one on. He gave into gravity and let his body collapse onto his soft bed. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, his muscles relaxing all at once. He was so exhausted that sleep seemed like it was only moments away. Then he felt a hand brush over his chest as a body slid in next to him.
Rick opened his eyes to see the top of Kate’s black hair, “I thought you were going to get me some food.”
She sighed and sat up, an annoyed smile fixed to her face. “Demanding aren’t you. All right, I’ll be back in a few minutes—”
Rick pulled her back down to his chest. “It feels good to have you here with me.”
“What about your food?”
“I’ve eaten a lot of meals in my life, but it’s a rare opportunity when a pretty lady wants to cuddle. Why don’t you stay awhile—you can get me something to eat later.”
She laughed. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you? It’s such a surprise that I didn’t have to fight through a line of women to cuddle with you.”
This time they both laughed.
***
Rick’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, pushing Kate’s hand off his chest. The traffic on the radio had awoken him.
“Something is approaching,” a Drone Operator said.
Rick grabbed his rifle and took off at a run, knocking over the half-eaten plate of food that was at his bedside.
This, in turn, woke Kate, who sat up, her eyes wide with panic. “What happened?”
Rick did not answer as he disappeared out of the sleeping quarters. As he ran, more details came over the radio, each one more confusing than the last.
“It’s huge—larger than the building. There are at least a dozen of them. They’re getting closer.”
Rick cued the radio as he ran. “What is it?”
“Towers,” a voice answered.
Rick crested the stairs that led to the roof, his eyes quickly scanning the perimeter. The sun was just starting to rise, silhouetting several massive structures that were slowly approaching. It looked as if a host of metallic creatures had just risen from hell, their shiny bodies just barely moving with life. As the towers approached and as the sun continued to rise, Rick could clearly see that the structures were made from construction scaffolding that had been reinforced with additional steel beams. Each tower had been welded to a broad base plate on the back of an unhitched semi-truck. The massive towers were crowned with a small, singular steel room that had only one shooting port cut into it. Presently, the shooting ports were sealed by a metal flap. Tied to the scaffolding of each tower were dozens of beaten and bloody bodies.
“They’re still alive,” Rick said under his breath. A few of the bodies were screaming in terror, but most seemed subdued by pain. “What are you playing at, Executor? What do you expect to do with those?” He studied the towers more closely. If the Executor intended to use them to breach the wall, he misjudged the height by a wide margin. Those towers must be at least twenty feet higher than the Costco—maybe more. He cued his radio. “Everyone into position: we’ve got another wave approaching.”
Scattered gunfire rang out moments later.
Rick ran against one of the walls and peered over the edge. Just as he was about to raise his rifle to his shoulder, a battle cry erupted from hundreds of Red Sleeves, breaking his concentration. He ducked behind the wall.
“We’ve got a wave coming from Whiskey 16 through 20,” said a drone operator. “Catapults and pigeons—pivot and fire at will.” The gunfire intensified from all sides. Explosions quickly followed.
“They’re hiding behind the vehicle barriers,” said a Drone Operator.
Rick grabbed his radio. “All drones, concentrate your napalm to the west. Don’t worry about the towers—they can’t get past the vehicle barriers.”
The towers came as close to the Costco as the vehicle barriers permitted them. They were much taller than even Rick had first guessed, almost by another two levels, and each one cast an ominously long shadow in the early sun. Rick was sure that soldiers were positioned inside the metal boxes, but for some reason, they did not open fire. The metal rang and sparked as a few defenders shot at the structure—but none of the bullets seemed to have any effect.
The first two napalm bombs were dropped from the drones at the attackers to the west, a third soon followed.
“Coming into reload,” said a Drone Operator, “Drone Reloading Team—how copy?”
“Good copy, the runway is clear for landing.”
That last transmission suddenly shot inspiration into Rick’s mind. Those towers aren’t being used to scale walls—like a siege tower—they’re being used to give added height to the Executor’s men so they can have a clear shot at the Drones. He turned around, his hand gripping his radio, and in that brief second, a sudden fear gripped his body. It’s not just the Drones they can hit—it’s every Roofer on the west side.
“All Roofers on the West Wall—pull back. I repeat—”
His words were interrupted by the explosion of machine gun fire. The towers had come to life. The shooting ports were now open, exposing a series of circular barrels. A long tail of fire erupted from the metal boxes as a hail of bullets strafed the Costco roof, tearing everything they hit into pieces. The landing Drone disappeared into a swarm of bullets, one of the catapults quickly followed. A young girl who had been assigned to reload the Drones was cut in half.
“Roofers on the West Wall,” Rick yelled. “Fall back inside.”
Panic erupted as the West Wall Roofers began to realize their precarious position. Several looked around in confusion, most others stood and ran. The small runway was torn apart; two more of the catapults were devastated in the storm of bullets; a Drone that was being refueled, exploded into a ball of flame as its payload was struck. Body after body was shot down, their guns forgotten as their lives were ripped from their bodies.
“Focus all fire on the towers,” Rick said. “Our people are getting mowed down up here—we need to cover their retreat. Are there any Drones that still have a payload?”
“This is Drone 3—I’m armed.”
“Hit the towers,” Rick yelled. He then turned his attention to the Roofers that were around him. “We’ve got to cover our people until they escape.”
“They’re advancing on the west side—we can’t hold them back,” a voice said through the radio.
“Build Crew,” Rick said over the radio, “Prepare for a wall breach around Whiskey.”
“Good copy,” someone replied.
Rick raised his head over the wall and shouldered his rifle. He had a clear shot of the towers, but now, since he was no longer using the murder holes, he was exposed to fire from enemy snipers or from the towers themselves. He aimed and fired a string of bullets at the gaping hole in one of the towers. Nothing changed. The firing port he was aiming at was small and distant, adding to the difficulty of the shot. He compensated for the distance and aimed slightly higher. His bullets sailed true, and for a moment, that specific tower stopped firing. A hail of bullets struck the wall in front of him, and he ducked for cover.
He then moved several feet to his right and did the same thing, firing at a different tower this time. More of the Roofers on the East Wall followed Rick’s example and moved out of their murder holes so that they could open fire on the towers. Again Rick hit his target and relief momentarily flooded thr
ough his body. We can beat these things. But this opinion quickly changed. Right as he crouched back down behind the wall, he happened to catch a glimpse of the first tower he had shot. The tower had only briefly been disabled and now appeared to be fully operational again.
Rick swore. There must be a line of people in those towers, each one ready to take the place of the next man that falls. It will take us an hour to pick them all off—and by then, the West Wall will be overrun.
Just then, an explosion shook the building.
“We’ve got a breach in Whiskey 5,” screamed a voice over the radio.
“Last unit good copy. Build Crew is en route,” said another crackly voice.
Rick stood up to shoot again, but as he did, a swarm of bullets hit the wall in front of him. As he was crouching back down for cover, a bullet hit his left arm. The stinging pain shot adrenaline through his body. He examined the wound: It had hit the edge of his forearm and punched right through, miraculously missing the bone. One of the Roofers only a few feet to his right was not as lucky. The man crumpled to the ground, his chest riddled with circular holes.
Rick tied a cloth sleeve around his wound and then went to the man’s side. “Let me see the wounds.” He ripped open the man’s shirt, revealing a pool of blood that flowed up like miniature geysers. There were so many bullet holes that Rick did not know where to start. He ripped his sleeve and applied pressure to the bloodiest area. Within moments, his sleeve was dyed crimson. As Rick studied the man more closely, he realized he knew this man—knew him well. He had lived next to him for the last several years. It was Mr. Zhao.
Rick swore. He soon realized that there was no possible way to stem the flow of blood from so many wounds. He grabbed Zhao’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Look at me. Concentrate on my voice.”
Zhao’s limbs started to shake. He turned towards the voice, a hint of recognition flashing in his eyes. Rick saw the man’s lips move, but his voice was so low that he could not make it out.
Rick pulled his head closer. “What?”
With his ear so close to Zhao’s mouth that it was almost touching, Rick could barely make out the voice. “You…good…man.”
Rick felt a lump form in his throat. Of all the things that could have been said, these three words shook him to the core. “Hang in there old friend. Don’t speak. The pain will soon be gone. Think of your wife…think of your…friends….” His voice broke mid-sentence.
“Take this…” Zhao whispered.
Rick grabbed Zhao’s open right hand and found a small key. “I’ll make sure your wife gets this.”
Zhao coughed, sending flecks of blood from his mouth and down his cheek. “My wife already knows…I love her, but you do not. It is greatest honor…to know you, Rick.”
“I need a medic on the roof,” said a voice over the radio, “In Echo 3.”
Rick was slow to respond to the radio traffic, but finally, he cued his radio. “Cancel that last request for Medic. We’ve got to clear out those towers before we send more people up here.”
“Ten-four,” someone responded.
Rick turned his attention back to Zhao, but there was little point. He was dead. Rick placed Zhao’s hand across his chest. “God speed…friend. We might all be joining you soon enough.” With this, he turned his attention back to the towers, firing his gun until the magazine ran dry. He then collapsed behind the wall and cued his radio. “Roofers that just fell back to the building—assist the Build Crew in securing the West Wall—Break—Roofers on the East and South Walls—cease fire on the towers and return to your murder holes.”
“We can’t take those towers out from the Sniper roosts,” Isaac said over the radio. “Every time we hit someone in the towers, there’s another person to fill his place.”
“I’m en route,” Rick said. He bear crawled along the wall, climbing over several dead bodies as he went until he reached the closest point to the stairs where he could still be protected by the wall. He was only twenty feet from the stairs, but the distance looked menacing, especially since there were at least a half dozen dead bodies bottlenecked around the entrance.
He reloaded his rifle, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the steps. He had not run very far before he heard machinegun fire strafing towards him. He entered the stairwell, slightly tripping over one of the bodies. As he fell down the steps, a bullet streaked through the air and hit his leg, sending a pulsing pain through his body. He tumbled to the ground, bullets still whipping past him. He crawled further down the steps, disappearing into the darkness below.
This new wound felt like a portion of his body had just been branded. He allowed himself a few seconds to stuff gauze into the wound and wrap it up with what was left of his shirt. He clenched his jaw as he pulled it tight around his leg. Despite the fiery pain, he could tell that his luck was still holding out. The bullet had passed through the leg without hitting the bone. He stood up and continued on, limping as fast as he could to the East Wall.
“Who’s got binos?” Rick asked as he approached a group of Snipers. His eyes still had not adjusted to the darkness of the building, and so he was unsure who exactly approached and obeyed his order. He limped forward until he reached one of the sniper roosts and peered out, scanning the towers from top to bottom for any sort of weakness. The wheels were the first thing that drew his attention, but as he looked at the menacing structures, he realized that many of the wheels had already been shot out and had no effect on the tower whatsoever. It was not until Rick slowed down his scan of the towers that he found what he was looking for. The base of the structures had been reinforced with thick steel I-beams, but the reinforcement disappeared about eight feet from the bottom. At that point, a much lighter metal was used to reinforce the structure.
We can cut right through those. Rick thought. A few well-aimed shots will weaken them enough for the heavy weight of the tower to send it crashing to the ground. He cued his radio and relayed his knew discovery, instructing his Snipers to shoot at the spot just above the thick I-beams, instead of shooting at the individuals in the box on top.
“Let’s see if this works,” Rick said over the radio. “Everyone target that tower directly in front of Echo 3. I repeat—all east side Snipers shoot for the tower in front of Echo 3.”
Rick obeyed his own command and shouldered the rifle. He aimed and fired, a distant spark vindicating his shot. He fired again and again, switching his fire between two sniper roosts. On his sixth shot, the Tower suddenly shifted and twisted, its frame folding underneath itself as the box was hurled towards the earth. Dust and debris kicked up as a loud crash signaled the death of the first tower.
Several of the defenders cheered.
“It worked,” Rick whispered. He cued his radio. “Now let’s focus our fire on the tower in front of Echo 2. Don’t get complacent—remember to shoot and move, shoot and move.”
With this new strategy of focusing the fire on the base of a particular tower, they quickly sent the towers crashing to the ground like a line of dominos. It was not long before all of the towers on the east side were taken out. With those towers eliminated, Rick moved to the South Wall to assist in bringing down the rest of them.
Another explosion shook the building.
“We’re getting hit hard on the west side,” someone said over the radio. “They’ve blown a hole at Whiskey 3.”
“Building Crew en route.”
Rick grabbed his radio, “Roofers on the East Wall, move to the murder holes on the West Wall. We’ve got to get that wall under control.”
Rick hobbled down the steps from the South Wall and headed to the West Wall, his rapid pace forcing blood to drip freely from the wound in his leg. Just as he reached the other side of the building, the wall in front of him exploded, knocking the wind out of his chest and forcing him to the floor. Rick’s ears buzzed, and his vision blurred. As the dust settled, he could see that the explosion had left a massive hole about six feet tall and f
ive-feet wide. Within moments, attackers were pouring through. The Build Crew was busy sealing up a hole at the other end of the building, and the closest defenders had been killed by the explosion. Rick was the only thing standing in the way of Red Sleeves.
There was nothing for him to hide behind, so he stood in the open, only thirty feet away from the mob of attackers that poured in. He unloaded his M4 magazine, then slapped a new magazine into his gun, and emptied it again. Still, the bodies surged forward. He dropped his rifle and drew his pistol, firing bullet after bullet at every target that appeared. His gun ran dry. As he was shoving in another magazine, one of the attackers returned fire, hitting Rick in the left shoulder. He fell to a knee, hitting the slide catch as he did. He fired, the head of the attacker exploding into a grey mess a moment later. Using only his right hand to fire, he took out another four Red Sleeves. The gun slide locked back—his gun was once again empty. He fumbled with his last magazine, his hands slippery with blood. He used his boot to release the slide. When he raised his weapon, however, no more Red Sleeves appeared.
“They’re falling back,” said a voice over the radio. “They’re falling back.”
FORTY-ONE
Day 102
Rick lay down on a bed in the hospital wing; his wounds had already been sown and bandaged. He had been given some powerful pain killers, but he could still feel the pain pulsing through his injuries.
Isaac was at his side. “You look rough. How you doing?”
“I’m good,” Rick growled. “The bullets punched right through, so there were no fragments to clean up. They’ve already stitched me. How many have we lost so far?”
Isaac pulled a small notepad from his back pants pocket. “The catapults are destroyed, and there’s only one Drone left that can fly…and we’ve lost one hundred and fifty, and that’s not counting wounded, which is another sixty-seven. Most of the Pigeon throwers still work, but we’re running low on Pigeons.”