by Mich Moore
at his good arm and dragged him off just as another cluster of projectiles hit the spot where he had just been. Light seemed to explode everywhere in tight clusters, setting the bus on fire. The engineer was too weak to do anything but be pulled along the rough terrain, and be grateful that he had avoided being in the crossfire. He felt himself suddenly falling and then the motion stopped. The scene went fuzzy and then fell completely out of focus. He glanced up and then around. He was on his back staring up at the gulley's eastern wall. His rescuer had dropped him back into the cattle trail.
"Are you all right?" Z asked.
Broussard felt his stomach spasm. He hurriedly sat up, but this time it was a spell of dry heaves. When he felt somewhat better he brushed the drying vomit from his chin. "I guess so." He coughed some. "Thanks. I owe you one."
Z nodded. He looked up at the sky. A full moon wheeled itself into view. "We're losing daylight."
Broussard quickly examined his injured arm. The only indication that something had occurred there was a small red spiral of raised flesh. He pinched the flesh around it and that dulled the burning sensation by a hair. "The DATs. They're still on the bus. We need to get them out."
"But those buses have shielding. Wouldn't they be safer inside?"
Broussard clutched his injured arm as a wave of invisible fire propagated itself up and down the length of his arm. The pain was unbelievable. "We took some of the armor off, remember?"
"Which bus?"
Neither of them was thinking straight.
"Z, I don't know! Just get over there and get them out of there. And get them past those civilians and into that truck." He was pointing towards Daley's rig. "They'll be safer behind corrugated steel. BUT DRAIN THOSE FUEL TANKS FIRST!"
"Okay! I will! You stay here!"
Broussard nodded. What else could he do? His mind began to race in ten different directions. As soon as Z was out of sight, Broussard dragged himself up and out of the trail. Keeping close to the ground, he inched his way back to B-1. It wasn't that he did not trust Z to safely relocate the DATs; it was just that he did not believe the slight scientist could successfully complete the task by himself.
The air was still and clear, and there was no discernible movement from the highway that he could detect. Had the attack stopped or were they simply reloading? He pushed the question from his mind. He had work to do, and worry would just slow him down. He stole a look around. People were either dead, faking death, injured, or still in hiding. It felt like he had been suddenly transported to the yard back at Lincoln Hills. Just like then, his stress levels were through the roof. He finally reached the bus. Tara was still lying on the ground where the Ranger had been working on her. He crawled up close and confirmed his worst fears. The young agent was dead. She was unmarked except for two identical swirls on her forehead. Their pattern reminded him of the burns made from old-fashioned cigarette lighters. Her hazel eyes were still open. Staring up. He turned away. He couldn't bring himself to close them.
Through a broken window he could hear Brady and Z talking from inside the bus. Good, he thought. Hopefully they would be able to get the DATs out before the next attack. Hillerman popped up from behind a still-smoking pickup truck parked off to the side. The major ran and then skidded towards him as if he were tagging home plate. He stopped just short of Broussard's legs.
"How is she?" he asked.
"She's gone," Broussard told him.
The major's face fell. "That's too bad."
"Can you help me get her into one of the buses? I don't want Eric to see this."
"No." It was then that Broussard noticed the major's arms dangling lifelessly at his sides.
Broussard's heart sank even farther. "Christ."
The survivors began stirring and moving around them. He looked down. Tara was still in the same lifeless position, presenting him with yet another corpse to dispose of. And once again his life was being imperiled by events completely out of his control. Snarling Death was still chasing him from pillar to post. It had to stop.
"So who's trying to kill us?" Broussard asked.
"Don't know. Could be the US-AS. Could be a highway gang."
"What kind of weapon is this?"
Hillerman didn't have an answer. Danger-filled time dragged on. Then...
"It's pretty quiet," Broussard said. And it still was. The entire area was improbably peaceful. "You think they've moved on?"
"Don't know that either. The Rangers are on their way to find out."
The major bobbed his head west. Half a dozen dark figures were scrambling on their bellies west, towards the interstate.
Broussard watched them disappear into a dip in the land. "You think they'll be okay?"
"Are you asking if they'll root these guys out? They're top notch men." Hillerman's jaws clenched tight. "They'll do their best. Either way, we've got Plan B in the works."
"What's Plan B?" Broussard asked as another wave of pain began to gain momentum in his wounded arm.
"Remember the falcon?"
Broussard clutched himself. His mind was glued to the fire coursing through his right arm. The hurt seemed to ratchet itself up a bit every few seconds. The agony peaked and then subsided. Sweat began to pour out of him.
He heard Hillerman's voice. "Take a deep breath."
Broussard sucked down air as the soldier watched. With both arms out of commission, he wondered how the major was able to stay so calm. And what was he talking about? "Come again?"
"The falcon in Chicago."
Broussard remembered.
"She's a messenger falcon. Based out of Scott. I cut her loose back at the truck stop."
The throbbing in his arm let up by a tiny fraction, allowing him to access more memory. "Her name was Plahnbie," Broussard said. And then it dawned on him. "Plan B! You think she can make it in time?"
"Scott is only about three hundred kilometers from here. Yeah, I believe she can." Major Hillerman looked ready to cry.
"Do we have anything for pain?" Broussard asked.
"The medic left us some medical supplies. We've got a few shots of morphine."
"Where?"
"They're in his medical bag on B-2."
"You stay here. I'll send someone back with a shot for you and some help with Tara."
"Then where are you going?" Hillerman asked.
Broussard flushed with sudden anger. "I'm not going to escape, if that's what you're thinking. I've got to make sure that the kids are all right."
Hillerman managed to look confused in spite of his burning arms. "Whose kids?"
"Ours! The DATs!"
Hillerman became angry and bellowed, "Now's not the time to lose your damn mind, Broussard!"
Broussard rose unsteadily to his feet. "Stay put!" He stooped over and half-ran back through the ragged line of parked vehicles.
Broussard had been gone for three minutes when Derek appeared out of the near darkness, his dirty face streaked with tracks of dried tears. He had a hypodermic needle in one hand and a heavy jacket in the other. The young agent administered a shot of morphine to Major Hillerman and then turned his attention to Tara. While Hillerman waited for the drug to take effect, he watched as Derek spread the jacket open and respectfully lay it across the dead agent's head and upper torso.
Afterwards, he gave Hillerman a hard, vengeful look. "You think it's US-AS?"
Hillerman nodded. "They want to know why we ran and what we're carrying."
"You think our cover's been blown?"
Hillerman felt his stomach heave, and he turned away to regurgitate his breakfast. "Sorry." He rubbed his wet chin against his shoulder. "No idea. But this type of operation seems out of proportion to the situation."
"The DATs can't be taken," Derek said evenly.
"I know."
"ATTENTION!"
Hillerman and Derek both jumped. The voice was coming from the now live cell phone clipped to the major's belt. Derek's cell phone started to vibrate.
"ATTENTION, PLEASE. THI
S IS A DULY-APPOINTED REPRESENTATIVE OF THE KENTUCKY STATE MILITARY. PLEASE MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR VEHICLES WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES TO COMPLY."
The owner of a decrepit camper truck stuck his grayed head out of the driver's side window and hollered, "Hey! I think some feller's talking to us on my radio! And this sucker ain't worked in years!"
"Answer your phone," Hillerman told Derek.
Derek did as he was told. As soon as he activated it, the same message repeated itself over the device's tinny speaker.
The sun sank, draining the all-important ambient light from their surroundings.
Derek shut down his phone. "What's going on?"
Hillerman's voice was grim. "It's the Advance South and they're using a VOG."
"A what?" Derek asked, plainly frightened.
"Tekkies call it the voice-of-God. It allows you to send a signal on any frequency. It was just a rumor—"
"ATTENTION! THIS IS MAJOR MARK BERMAN OF THE UNITED STATES-ADVANCE SOUTH ARMY. YOU ARE TRESSPASSING ON FOREIGN SOIL. PLEASE STEP AWAY FROM YOUR VEHICLES AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU HAVE FOURTEEN MINUTES TO COMPLY WITH THIS ORDER."
This time the voice seemed to emanate from the air itself, as if it were being broadcast via subwoofers mounted on low-hanging clouds.
"LOOK!" someone shouted. "ON THE HIGHWAY!"
Interstate 24, previously devoid of life, now supported a line of identical vehicles parked perpendicular to the highway. All of the vehicles were facing east. And them.
A woman started to whimper like a whipped dog.
Hillerman twisted so that his tool belt was exposed. "Derek, grab the binocs and tell me what you see. Keep low!"
Derek did as he was told. He quickly counted fifty Abrahms