by J D Stone
Ben wanted to say something back, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, so he just nodded and gave his brother a thumbs-up.
The Stranger signaled forward. They formed a patrol line and continued the descent.
The waxing moon cast a pale light on the Witcher’s base, less than five hundred feet away. Ben knew this was it. The eerie sight must’ve caught Oswald’s attention because at that moment he lost his footing and set off a crumbling slide of fist-sized rocks.
Ben’s muscles tightened, and his ears began to ring. And that’s when the adrenaline hit him. The rock slide must’ve triggered his adrenal glands.
His body coursed with a sharp fire. He resisted the urge to glare at Oswald, who was now officially a liability.
But nobody said anything; in fact, the Stranger completely ignored it.
As soon as they were down on level ground, they scampered to their first cover: a small trench in which they could hide. Here they waited, giving time for Cameron to set up his spot. Ben glanced up at his brother’s location and hoped that he wouldn’t see him, because if he did, then they could too. He exhaled quickly and turned to face the base again.
After two minutes, the Stranger waved his arm forward. The squad took ten steps when suddenly he whispered harshly: “Down!”
They all dropped.
Ben lay flat on his stomach, his eyes on the Stranger. In the cold earth, he felt the reverberations of his heart pumping as if he were lying on a cellar door and some monster was pounding to get out.
The Stranger moved forward, and Ben found himself doing the same. Just don’t lose sight of him. They covered the open ground in what seemed like two breaths and then they were just fifty feet away from the chained fence. You can do this.
He hid behind a pile of hewn rocks. Closing his eyes for a moment, he rolled his head around his neck and scrunched his shoulders.
All was silent except for the living night. The soft wind. The chirping insects. The squeak of a rusted piece of gutter dangling from the side of a toppled shed.
He looked to his left. Danna’s eyes were fixed in a frozen stare on the fence. She held a pistol in her right hand and a pair of wire cutters in her left.
Kaela patted Danna’s shoulder and nodded once. Bracing herself, Danna darted forward, keeping low. Within seconds, she had reached the fence.
Snap.
Ben leaned forward and grimaced: if he could hear it then so could they.
Snap.
He clenched his fists. She’s gonna get shot, he thought. He wanted to stand up and yell at her to run back to them, where she’d be safe, and then they’d retreat, and nobody would have to die.
There was a pause. Ben looked over at the Stranger, who was animatedly waving him to move forward. Keeping low, he stepped out into the open space.
A deflating vulnerability swept over him as if his soul, expecting a bullet, took a head start and ripped itself away from him and fled to whatever lay beyond.
But he kept moving, one step at a time. Just get to Danna, he told himself. Get to Danna.
She and Kaela were holding up a three-square-foot strip of fence. The Stranger was already on the other side, his muzzle aimed at the dark windows of the building. Danna waved Ben forward. After passing his rifle to Danna, he squatted down and carefully crawled through the opening.
Oswald handed his rifle to Ben and bellied his way through the hole. He was almost through when his left heel clipped the top side of the hole, sending a rattling shockwave down the fence.
You might as well have climbed the fence, you big oaf.
They all fell flat on their faces and froze.
Ben dug his fingers into the earth, needing to grab on to something. The Stranger was in his line of sight, but he never took his eyes off the windows, not even to shoot Oswald a deathly glare for his carelessness.
At least that’s what I would’ve done, Ben thought.
Suddenly a flashlight lit up from one of the windows. It began to probe along the fencing.
It’s over.
He waited for the alarm and the gunfire. Instead, he heard the light pattering of hoofs. The flashlight beam snapped up and tracked a large doe bounding in the opposite direction.
Then it shut off.
Ben glanced upward at the stars and let out a deep breath.
After Poncho and Ivan had made it through, the squad split into their teams and ran for separate cover. Ben and the Stranger ran to a stack of wood pallets and hunkered down behind them.
The Stranger elbowed him and nodded toward the building.
Thirty feet above, a Witcher was leaning casually against a makeshift railing on the roof. Behind him was a ramshackle, open-air guard shed. He wore a long leather trench coat with a dark black hood that covered his head. His face was obscured except for two giant bulbous red eyes that illuminated a metal gas mask wrapped around his face. He carried an AK-47.
“A vagabond?” the Stranger whispered.
Ben squinted, then shook his head. “It would’ve detected our heat signature by now. He’s human.”
“Or used to be.”
The Stranger took out a laser pointer and flashed three times in Cameron’s direction.
Thirty seconds later, Ben heard a soft pop and a commotion at the railing. Then a dull thump. He peeked around the pallets; the guard was laying on the ground, his limbs twisted in unnatural directions.
A lantern flickered on in the guard shack, and a Witcher rushed out onto the railing, looking for the other guard.
He took the .50 caliber bullet to the chest in a clean shot. But as he fell, his contracting finger pulled the trigger of his AK-47, sending several rounds into the sky until his hand hit the walkway and the rifle tumbled to the ground.
Dogs began barking, and a harsh, tinny alarm wailed across the quarry.
Showtime.
As soon as the shots were fired, the Stranger stood up and shouted: “Charlie, move! Delta, move!”
Both assault teams charged ahead to the building, fifty feet away. They reached the utility door and pressed themselves on both sides of it.
The Stranger tapped Ben on the back of his shoulder. “Now, Ben!”
Ben unclipped a grenade from his belt and threw it as far as he could in Jasper and Jon’s sector. The grenade exploded ten feet from the side of the building, shaking the ground and letting the vermin that teemed inside know that they had serious company.
Indeed, Ben heard a docking bay door roll up, and four cloaked men rushed out into the yard, guns blazing erratically. Hidden in the chaparral, Jasper and Jon answered with a salvo of machine gun fire, cutting them down in seconds.
The Stranger nodded once, and Ben unclipped a smoke grenade and tossed it in the same direction; it exploded with a bright flash, and soon half the yard was shrouded in a blue haze.
“Weapons up and lights on,” the Stranger said.
Ben flicked on the light mounted on his rifle and clenched his jaw. Sweat was dripping down his face, and he was already out of breath.
The Stranger pulled a device out of his pack, turned a couple of knobs, and stuck it to the metal door with a magnetic thump.
“Move away!”
Both teams stepped back ten feet or so and crouched and covered their ears. The bomb exploded with such force that it ruptured the steel door in half and blew it twenty feet into the yard.
Unclipping a smoke grenade, the Stranger ran to the door and tossed it in. There was a loud pop, and smoke billowed out of the entry way.
“Charlie One, move in!”
Like a calm, methodical blur, Kaela and Danna disappeared into the building.
Ben waited tensely for Kaela to call out “clear.”
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
Suddenly a torrent of gunfire ripped off inside. His stomach turned in on itself.
“Keep your head up, Ben,” the Stranger said crisply, looking into his eyes. “Watch out for goons.”
Ben blinked hard and wiped
his left hand on the side of his pants. You have to do this, he told himself. You WILL do this.
The Stranger moved to the edge of the doorway and called out: “Status!”
There was a pause, then a faint, “Hallway clear!”
“Ben, let’s move. Delta, cover us! Coming in!”
And then, as if in a dream, Ben was rushing down a smoke-filled hallway. Dim overhead lights crackled above, debris crunched under his boots, and his heart pounded in his ears — or was that gunfire? He glanced over his shoulder; Poncho and Ivan were right behind him, their faces set to kill.
They arrived at a T in the hallway; Danna and Kaela were planted against the walls on each side. Bodies were sprawled out at their feet. A foul haze haunted the passages, and the air reeked of gunpowder and rotting flesh mixed with sweat and leaking sewage pipes. The floors were strewn with shattered glass, cigarette butts, and broken pieces of drywall.
Ben looked up past the crude markings and bullet holes that decorated the walls and took a cautious step backward. Attached to metal dog chains and swinging from the bare, pipe-lined ceilings were dozens of dead animal carcasses — rats, opossums, and even a sheep.
No wonder these Witchers wear gas masks.
“What’s the layout?” the Stranger asked, nonplussed about the hallway decorations.
Kaela covered her mouth and nose with one hand and pointed down the south-leading hallway. “That way goes out to the garage, so we need to split up.”
“Got it. We move door-to-door. You all know the drill. Shoot anybody with guns.” The Stranger turned to Ben. “You’re the link man, so you’re going to be talking back and forth with the squads. Don’t get lost.”
Ben rolled his eyes and muttered, “Got it.”
“Okay, let’s move,” the Stranger said after checking his ammunition. “Charlie One take right side; Delta One, take left. Remember: dominate your position!”
Ben felt his head nodding at the Stranger’s words, then everything flashed and tumbled and shook.
“Grenade!”
Boom!
“Move in!”
“Short room, Alpha, skip. Clear.”
“Coming out.”
“Status?”
“Delta clear!”
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
“Get down!”
Click. “Stoppage. Wait, ready!”
“Status?”
“Charlie, room clear!”
“Ben, you there?”
Blinding blurs, chaos, everything so fast.
“Ben!”
Ben shook his head, then yelled: “Go long!”
Obscured by shadows, Delta One quietly moved like specters farther down the opposite hallway and up the stairwell.
“Contact!”
Dogs barked.
Rat-tat-tat!
“Man down! Man down!”
Ben shook his head and blinked. He heard furniture crashing and people yelling. A violent struggle was going on in the next room. The door was shut.
A single shot. Then a loud smash.
Filling his lungs with air, Ben shouted: “Coming in!” Then he kicked in the door.
A monstrous man in a rusted gas mask stood there, huffing and puffing.
Ben whistled. “Wow, you’re ugly!”
The man swung his brass-knuckled fist at Ben’s face.
Ben ducked, then lunged forward; and right when the man was still off-balance from throwing the punch, he jammed the butt of his rifle into the back of the man’s head with all his strength.
There was a loud crack, then a thump as the man hit the floor.
“I’ve gotten kicked out of two schools for fighting,” Ben told the body; “including beating up the one jerk’s older brother and his friend.” He’d forgotten to tell the Stranger about the other fight.
He slid to his right then pressed his back against the wall, checking both sectors of the room, which was lined with bunks and overturned filthy cots. The room was clear, but a nasty fight left its evidence in broken furniture and shattered glass.
“Room clear!” he shouted hoarsely.
But nobody answered.
On the far side of the room, a large paneled window had been smashed through. Ben knew what had happened. Rushing to the window, but taking care not to be seen, he slowly peered down. The drop was about fifteen feet to a dirty alleyway enclosed on all sides. Distant gunfire was being exchanged, and the smell of sulfur was thick in the air.
At the bottom, a man lay sprawled out, surrounded by shards of glass.
Ben’s heart leapt: it wasn’t the Stranger. I better go find him, he thought, otherwise I’m not getting outta here alive.
He checked his ammunition count then moved swiftly out of the room. Turning right, he came upon two armored Witchers barreling down the hallway with razor-sharp javelins the length of elephant tusks pointed straight at him.
Boot steps pounded behind him, and he spun around. Another two goons, but these ones had Uzis.
Ben fired two quick rounds at the gun-toting Witchers then dove over Mr. Ugly and back into the room as a hail of bullets swept over him.
Scrambling to his feet, he unhooked the last grenade from his assault pack and tossed it underhand into the hallway. Then with three running steps, he was through the window.
The grenade exploded as he hit the ground fifteen feet below. He’d landed on his pack to soften the blow, but the impact still knocked the wind out of him, and his lungs felt like they’d collapsed.
For a moment Ben lay there, his chest heaving, unable to move as if crushed by sandbags. But his wits forced him to get up, telling him that he was an open target lying on the ground.
He struggled to his hands and knees, then slowly staggered to his feet. He felt numb — broken in half.
Shaking the fogginess out of his head, Ben noticed that just above the alley floor were windows to rooms on a lower level.
Still wheezing, he squinted into the one closest to him. Too dark. He moved to the second window five feet down and peered inside.
Suddenly a pop-pop of gunfire blistered the air, and two slugs hit his chest as if he had stood in front of a cannon.
Ben stumbled backward, but he quickly gathered himself, and planting his feet into the ground, he dove helmet first into the glass window just as another two rounds shredded the corner of his pack.
The room was pitch black except for the beam of dreary light from the window, and a nauseating smell of ammonia and sweat washed over him. He stood up and brushed the shards of glass off him, and he checked himself for broken bones. Maybe a sprained wrist, but nothing serious.
He blinked hard to adjust to the darkness. His chest was on fire, and after fingering the dents in his ceramic plated body armor, his throat tightened.
Something rustled in the corner. Ben flipped on the rifle-mounted light and shone it in that direction.
Two pale, sickly creatures were cowering in the corner of the room, cringing and blinking sharply, blinded by the light.
Kids.
Ben took two steps toward them, and more pieces of glass dropped from his body and splintered on the concrete floor. The children wedged themselves further into the corner.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Ben said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and swallowed but his tongue still stuck to the roof of his mouth.
The one closest to him was a boy of about ten, with brown matted hair and a round, freckled faced. He wore a long black tunic, which he used to partially hide the other child, a sandy-haired girl of about eight. She wore a filthy white tunic with ghastly symbols stitched all over it.
“Sammy? Claire Marie?”
Neither one of the children moved or said a word.
I don’t have time for this, he thought. Where’s Danna? She’s good with the kids. Well, maybe not. . . .
“Sammy, I’m with your dad,” Ben said firmly.
“My dad’s here?” called out a reedy voice.
Ben perked up. “Yeah, he sure is.”
>
“He’s here to rescue me?”
“Yes. And so am I.”
The girl moved Sammy’s cloak aside a little. “And my mommy? Is she here too?”
“No, but she’s waiting for you back home. Do you wanna go home?”
The girl nodded but stopped abruptly. “Are you a bad guy?”
Ben paused. “No,” he replied uneasily. Food for thought. “Nope, I’m here to rescue you.”
“Is my dad waiting for me outside?” Sammy asked.
“Sure, maybe. Why don’t we find out? Can you both walk?”
The children stood up, but they stayed huddled in the corner.
“Are you gonna come or not?” Ben asked impatiently.
Sammy hesitated, but then he nodded and grabbed Claire Marie’s hand and stepped forward.
Now how am I going to get out of here? It was quiet. Too quiet. He hadn’t heard gunfire in several minutes.
He tip-toed over to the window and peeked his head out. His heart skipped. Those guys knew which room I jumped into. He was wasting time.
“Quick!” he said, ushering them back into the corner.
“You’re leaving us?” the girl squeaked.
“Shh! No, no, I’m not.” He flashed the light around the room. It was bare except for a small bucket in a corner. “Just sit here and be quiet!”
Ben shut off the light, knelt in front of them, and faced the door. He felt four small hands latch on to his shoulders and squeeze like clamp-on vises.
After a silent minute, heavy footsteps thudded on the other side of the wall and shadows appeared in the thin crack under the door.
“Not a word,” he whispered.
The doorknob moved once, a soft tick. Then it rattled violently.
Ben leaned back, pressing into the children, then raised his rifle. “Cover your ears,” he said quickly.
The door blew off its hinges, and two hooded figures burst into the room. Positioned on one knee, Ben unleashed a blazing torrent of bullets. The children shrieked behind him, but then it was all over and back to quiet, except for his wheezing lungs.
“You guys okay?”
They were frozen. But the boy took a deep breath and nodded gravely. “Yes, sir, we’re okay. Can we go now?”