by DMJ Aurini
“Too damn few of us, man.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Chapter 33
They awoke in darkness. A stronger wind current had started up in the subway network, howling with a dry moan. The fire had guttered out into black ash.
They crawled back up to the surface to eat breakfast, as hungry for the light as they were for the meal. It was midmorning and overcast. The rain had stopped but there were puddles everywhere. After hot coffee and a couple strips of jerky they continued exploring. The subway tunnels made an oval through the city, and they were determined to see it all the way through.
Rubble and cars still littered the ground but they’d moved to a part of the city with fewer skyscrapers. It was finally possible to travel across the surface, but still everything they found was broken and rotted.
Around noon they arrived at a crossroads filled with small shops and walk-ups. It was there they found the bookstore, on one of the corners. Feeling a burst of their initial excitement, they began exploring. The interior was heavily stylized and open-concept. Where the wallpaper wasn’t peeling they could make out ancient quotes written in cursive script. The lower level had been damaged by flash floods from the vicious fall storms, the waters had raced through the aisles overturning shelves and destroying their contents before seeping down to the lower levels of the city. So they climbed to the second storey, hoping to find something that had survived there. The first book they tried to pull off broke, its spine peeling away where they pulled on it. With the second they were gentler and managed to pull it off intact, but it would not open. Dry mildew had grown through its pages, binding them together and ruining them. All the others were equally worthless. Some had turned into brittle dust, others had undergone slow chemical decay, and still others had simply rotted into black mould. None of them were readable, and the waxy magazines which had survived on the lower level were as useless as the ones Wentworth had found in the subway kiosk the day before.
He walked over to one of the circular windows looking out onto the street. He unslung his rifle and sat in its frame, lighting a cigarette and drinking from his canteen. Looking out over the city he spoke.
“It’s all useless. There’s nothing for us here.”
Raxx wandered over and crossed his arms, remaining silent.
“If we were scavenging we might find some of the old tech worth salvaging… but what’s the point in that? There’re no answers here.”
“You want to go back?”
“Guess we might as well.”
They started their journey back to the vehicles, still holding out hope that something would show up in their path, but it was all in vain. They passed through the tunnels, squeezing around subway cars littered with skeletons, and when they climbed up to the surface it was only to stare at a city of bones.
Finally they reached the last station. It was a block south of where they’d first entered, but closer to their vehicles. They walked up the stairs. A faded set of pylons had rolled over on the road. Ahead of them one of the paving blocks was missing, some sort of work trench opened up in its place. Cement barricaded bordered on either side. Next to them was another glass building, its windows washed clean by the recent showers. As they reached the top Wentworth turned to look at his reflection. The eerie mystery of this place that he’d felt upon first arriving was gone. There was nothing here; this city was a dead waste…
A flinch. His nerves caught on fire. “Get down!” he screamed, grabbing Raxx by the back of his vest, and pushing him forwards, into the work trench.
He noticed every pebble, every shard of glass, green and brown. Raxx’s weapon was still in his hand. A pile of old cigarettes had gathered in the trench’s corner. As they hit the ground he heard the sound of shattering glass as one of the reflective windows came down in a tinkling shower, followed by the whiz of a bullet’s sonic boom.
Time went back to normal, and for three ragged breaths they lay there, looking at each other.
“Sergeant Wentworth!” a voice shouted in the distance, “It’s over. We’ve got you covered and there’s nowhere to go. Give yourself up; it’s time for you to pay for your crimes.”
“Shit,” said Wentworth, breathing heavily. “It’s them.”
Raxx looked at him, confusion written across his features.
“Alright, listen; they’re not after you, just me. You barely know me, we just worked together a bit. Now I’m going to–“
“Fuck you, what’s the plan?”
“What? Listen, Raxx, these guys aren’t a bunch of jack-offs like the Hellhounds. There’s going to be at least eight of them, trained like I am. They–“
“I said fuck you, what’s the plan?”
Wentworth searched his partner’s eyes. The man was unwavering. “Alright,” he said.
“Sergeant Wentworth, you are ordered to stand up with your hands above your head. You will leave your rifle on the ground, and remove your pistol, and any other weapons you might be carrying. Do this now!”
Combat was always a role of the dice. Those who survived were as lucky as they were skilled. But that didn’t mean you trusted blind chance. He’d been a student of war his entire life, and what he’d learned told him that this was a bad situation.
The man on the megaphone was Sergeant Phillips. He had his personality flaws, but there was no faulting his soldiering skills. The one behind the sniper rifle was probably Corporal Steele. He remembered grad-night, and her evening gown. If she’d been paying attention she wouldn’t have missed. There’d be six others, young kids he couldn’t name but deadly nonetheless. Two with machine guns and maybe a grenade launcher or two. Why they hadn’t used it yet, he couldn’t say.
Four against one were impossible odds if the four were remotely skilled. Three against one was doable, if you were highly skilled and they weren’t, four? Never. The Hellhounds and Slayer had been different situations, even if Raxx didn’t realize it. But now the Regiment had found him. He was probably better than them, but it wouldn’t matter. Not in a fair fight, anyway.
This was dead man walking time.
* * *
Steele was sweating. She’d been picking her nose when Wentworth came into view and somehow during that second while she’d hefted her weapon and drew a bead on him he’d sensed her. How the hell had he done that? She was a block away in the shadows of the parking garage where they’d found his motorcycle. A tingle ran down her spine. She ignored the memory – the tingle was fear, not something else. The man was scary. But he didn’t scare her as much as Sergeant Phillips did. She shouldn’t have missed, and she’d hear about it later.
The rest of the Section was arrayed along the walls. All of them wore the same helmet and goggles as Wentworth, with long black trench coats made out of the same black leather. Gaps of several meters separated them, while Phillips watched from behind. They had their weapons trained on the concrete barrier waiting for a target.
“All right;” they heard in the distance, “I’m coming out. Hold your fire!”
“Get ready, Corporal. The rest of you, hold your fire” said Phillips.
Staring through her scope she saw Wentworth slowly rise from behind the barrier, hands over his head as ordered. Taking aim at his centre of mass she slowly squeezed the trigger. The recoil caught her by surprise, as it should, but when the gun steadied all she saw was another cavity in the glass building behind the barrier.
“Shit!” she said, “It was just his reflection!”
A sudden movement on the far side of the barrier caught the Sections attention and they all opened up. Steele drew a bead, only to realize that the object was green – they’d been firing at his duffle bag! Swinging her scope she caught Wentworth and the savage he was with running towards the subway. “Shift Fire Left!” She fired a couple of snap shots and heard the others open up, but all of them missed. Wentworth and the freak travelling with him had disappeared into the subway network.
“Goddamnit!” yelled Phillips. “
Let’s move people, we can’t let him disappear into the city. I said move, goddamnit!”
* * *
The tunnels seemed darker than before. They moved at a jog, the beams from their flashlights jerking back and forth with each step.
“You got any C4 on you?” asked Wentworth as they vaulted over a series of turnstiles blocking their path.
“Nothing but my shotgun and some extra ammo,” panted Raxx, “You?”
“Same here; nothing.” They’d left their bags behind when they bolted for the subway. There’d been nothing in them that would have helped, anyhow.
Wentworth would have traded his motorcycle for a few grenades at this point.
His mind was whirring, thinking up and discarding plans as they came to him. “We need to start some fires. Get some light in here. Anything that’ll burn.” He vaulted back over one of the turnstile, back towards the entrance, to a newspaper box. He tried pulling it, then stomped down on its door, breaking the hinges. He held his lighter up to the contents and waited for them to catch. Sweat was pouring down his brow and he kept glancing over at the entrance, expecting Phillips’ Section to enter at any moment. Raxx was still standing by the turnstiles, his flashlight was pointed downwards and all that could be seen were his feet. “Head down to the tracks and see if you can find anything,” he said, “Garbage cans, whatever. I’ll just be a sec.”
* * *
They’d gathered by the subway entrance. Mathews, one of the gunners, was crouched down behind some rubble on the right, covering the stairwell. The rest of them were stacked up on the left. Steele was covering the rear with her sniper rifle while Phillips stood next to her. The other six were stacked up against the building ready to breach the entrance. Phillips gave the nod. The rear man in the stack squeezed the next man’s shoulder and so on up the line until it reached the one in front. A split second later he started moving and the rest followed. Like a single organism they glided in smooth, their black coats merging into the shadows, cones of light shining from the flashlights at the ends of their rifles. Each moved to their corners in the small foyer and yelled up “Clear!” Phillips gathered the remaining three on the surface and they started down the stairs while the group below took the next room.
The subway was a nightmare for close combat. The main room they entered would have been wide and open but for benches, support columns, and magazine stands filling the space. They stuck to the walls as they entered, circling and training their weapons back and forth. There were numerous places that the two might be hiding but Phillips was confident that Wentworth wouldn’t be that stupid. An ambush at this point might take out a couple of them, but Wentworth would die in the process. No, he’d be going deeper. He’d keep running. But they still needed to clear the area.
There were a bunch of fires lit, in garbage cans and newspaper kiosks. His Section had the sense to stick to the darker corners, away from the smoke. The flames made shadows dance against the walls and ceiling, but were useless for seeing. He kept his own flashlight pointed down the long corridors.
Moving leap-frog, they went further along. Past the turnstiles was another set of steps. He could make out the light from several different fires reflecting off the roof of the lower level. Wentworth was leaving a path for them to follow.
With hand signals he grouped his Section on either side of the stairs. It was quiet. When they moved their footsteps echoed and their trench coats swished. Their weapons made greasy clacking sounds as they adjusted their grips. The fires crackled softly while in the distance a moan almost too low to be heard resonated through the long tunnels. He grabbed the shoulder in front of him, not caring who it was. “Prep smoke,” he whispered in their ear.
* * *
Wentworth was leaning against the wall in sitting position, canted to his right so that his point of aim would be at the distant subway platform. His weapon’s sling was wrapped around his right arm, his hand was on the pistol grip, while the weapons magazine was cradled in the crook of his left elbow. His arms were crossed and the weapon was nestled snugly between the two. Taking deep breaths he tried to slow his heart rate. This shot needed to be on target.
Running was not an option. This time, it was a question of resources. If he and Raxx were to attempt flight it would be a pyrrhic victory. Without their vehicles and supplies Phillips would eventually catch up with them and it would be the same fight, only they’d be exhausted and hungry. Better to make their stand now. Phillips had screwed up by not killing him immediately, and now they were both flying by the seat of their pants.
Except Wentworth had already explored these tunnels.
He could barely make out the distant subway platform. The fire Raxx had lit had been in a garbage can. It was projecting its light upwards towards the ceiling, not onto the platform itself. But Wentworth could remember what it looked like and the few things reflecting the light were enough of a guide for him to take up a point of aim.
A metal canister bounced down the stairs, Wentworth recognized its sound. It started spewing out purple smoke and within seconds the platform was covered.
That was okay. He still had his point of aim. Time for the eyes to go glassy, and the heart to beat steady.
Ears straining, he made out the sounds of footfalls. They were coming down the stairs, planning to immediately bypass the platform because it was lit up, and go straight for the tunnels. He waited a moment, guessed at the timing, and squeezed the trigger.
His rifle cracked and struck his eardrum, the cement tunnels echoing viciously, followed by a loud blast from the platform. Its echoes interplayed with the echoes from his rifle for a second. Then the screams started.
Wentworth was already running. He’d used the recoil of his weapon to roll backwards, onto his feet. The next platform was close at hand, he could make out the red glow of another of Raxx’s fires. He ran blind, not risking a flashlight, trusting the reflections off the two rails. Everything was glints of silver and red. The sound of machinegun fire started up just as he reached the platform. His rifle was raised up in one hand while his other grasped the side of the platform. Invisible in the shadows, Raxx grabbed the hand guards on Wentworth’s rifle and pulled him up. Something bit into the back of Wentworth’s calf and he gasped in pain, sagging for a second – goddamnit, the same fucking leg! – but his grip on the rifle only tightened as Raxx finished hauling him.
They were safe for the moment. The back of his leg felt wet, but aside from the initial bite he felt no pain. Time to come up with another idea.
* * *
Phillips had noticed the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall immediately upon entering the platform. As soon as he saw it things clicked; he knew what Wentworth was planning, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything before the man’s round had screamed through the smoke and into the container of pressurized gas. It had been all Phillips could do to dive for cover as it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere.
Now two of his men were dead, a third dying. He’d grabbed the machine gun off the dying one and vaulted down to the tracks. He’d fired for a good five or six seconds, raking it back and forth across the tunnel, before releasing the trigger. Exposed as he was he didn’t dare turn on the flashlight to see if he’d hit anyone. They’d need to regroup and keep going.
Steele had dragged the dying gunner to cover and was administering first aid, while the other three took up covering positions. Phillips could already see that the first aid would be useless; one of the dead had been their medic. To their credit, none of his troops looked phased. Two, soon to be three, of their brothers were dead, but they’d deal with their emotions later. Right now there was work to be done.
They regrouped quickly, though it took longer than Phillips would have liked, then arrayed themselves along the tunnel and started moving. Ahead the next platform glowed, a garbage can fire had been kicked over and the chamber was easily visible. They jogged, not wanting to waste time, trying to deny any advantage to Wentworth and his cohort.
At the last platform there’d been had tracks running along either side; here, the tracks came together and there were two platforms. The kicked-over barrel was on their left, but he decided to hedge his bet and split their force – three on the left, three on the right. They climbed up while he covered them. They were still cautious and sharp, fluid, taking the area in stages, staying behind whatever cover they could find. The boarding-area was clear. Their quarry would be above, by the ticket booths.
* * *
Raxx remembered this area. The stairs came up on either sides of the tunnel, and the platform was huge, shops littering both side of the rotunda. Above it was a semi-circular balcony, leading towards the exits, and looking down on the subway stairwells. They were up on it now, crouched in the shadows with their weapons trained. Wentworth had called it the fatal funnel. This was where they were going to end it.
The minutes stretched on. It was dark. Only the barest hints of red, flickering light reached them. Finally they heard sounds from below. Wentworth’s hands were sweating, he opened and closed his right before putting it back on the pistol grip. Phillips was being cautious.
A glint of black in the stairwell. He and Raxx opened fire. The gong of a grenade launcher. Raxx was already running, as planned, after firing a short burst. Wentworth dove to the side, rolling onto his stomach and bringing his rifle up. A piece of shrapnel pinged off his helmet as he started firing back down into the stairwell. Raxx had circled around the balcony and was going down the service stairs. Without exposing himself, the grenadier lobbed a second grenade. This one exploded against the ceiling. Wentworth ducked again. This time he couldn’t tell what showered his body, bits of concrete or shrapnel, but he still seemed to be okay. He rolled back from the edge and played dead.
“Move!” came the shout from below. The Section tried to bypass the stairwell as quickly as possible, but the troop guarding their six was too slow. By this time Raxx had snuck down the service stairs, and was crouched at the back end. His shotgun chugged as he held down the trigger. The muzzle flash lit his face white, casting shadows on his eye sockets and making the hairs of his goatee stick out like a thousand threatening needles. His piercings glowed viciously.