by Mark Tufo
With a mind free of pain, I’m able to quickly sight in on the first whistler below. Thumps and pings still pepper from my previous position, so they haven’t spied me over the top of the stone as yet. I fire, see the round strike, and quickly adjust to the next one in line. It doesn’t take but a half second for them to adjust their own fire and sparks fly from the boulder. I wonder just where they’re keeping so many rounds. I have seen them reload, then again, I haven’t watched that closely.
The carbine bucks against my shoulder as I send another round streaking down toward the road. The top of the whistler’s head wobbles like ripples on a pond as the bullet rips through. The volume of fire has slacked off, but the accuracy has improved. I suppose I’ll take the lack of fire over the increased precision of their shots. I fire again and again, sending a volley of single shots down. I want this part of the engagement over so I can focus on the flankers.
Bullets tear down the hillside, sparks erupting from the pavement and among the spilled bikes. The leather of the bikers’ jackets puff outward as rounds strike, the whistlers just absorbing the impacts. They both stand upright as if I hit them with nerf rockets, but then, thankfully, tumble to the ground. I don’t know why none of them has taken cover. Confidence? Stupidity? The reliance on numbers to overwhelm me? The utmost belief in their ability to paralyze their prey? I’m thankful for whatever their reasoning might be as it’s given me a chance. If this became a prolonged gunfight with them shooting from cover, their flanking maneuvers would be much more effective. Plus, I’d run out of ammo, and they could take me at their leisure.
The other five flanking have been able to gain some height during my firefight with those below. The return fire has completely abated, leaving me clear to fire at will. Yes, I know, poor Will. Only two are in sight, the rest having reached my level and moved behind boulders of their own. I take aim at one still madly moving for cover and fire. I lead the awkwardly scrambling whistler and my bullet slams into a large rock, whining off into the distance. The creature vanishes behind the stone. However, tail end Charlie is still in the open. I send two rounds in his direction and am rewarded by a spectacular tumble down the hill.
Four left.
With the whistlers out of sight, I run along the slope and up slightly to another boulder. If they come out firing, it will hopefully be at my former position and I’ll have a clear shot. From here, I need to whittle them down without taking a staple. They’re closer, so their accuracy is bound to be better.
Play it cool, Jack. You’re almost there.
Two come around the corner of a boulder and begin firing toward my former position. The other two jump out and start running on their hinged joints toward the next large rock. It’s a gangly-looking maneuver, but they’re fast, nonetheless.
Now they resort to tactics?
I fire at one of those “running” and see my bullets strike its chest. It falls forward over its freakish knees, coming to rest with its hips on top of its toes. The sight of that sends a wave of revulsion through my body. The other running whistler dives for cover at the first report of my gunfire, although instead of diving forward, its hinged joints allow it to jump backward with the same ease. It quickly scrambles behind a low boulder with my rounds chasing it.
Three left.
With the remaining bullets in my mag, I quickly adjust my aim and fire toward those behind, hitting only hillside and rock. They duck into cover. Replacing my mag, I turn and run across the slope to the next large stone. I’ll keep playing leapfrog with them for as long as they’ll let me.
With a line of sight toward both positions, I wait for their next move. A second later, the two who had provided covering fire emerge again, one shooting while the other runs. The one who scrambled into cover also rises and races toward my previous spot. Now they’ve sufficiently divided my attention.
The one firing is more in the open, so I focus my shots toward his position as staples hammer the rock where I was. The creature is knocked backward as my bullets find their mark. However, the whistler who had reached my previous position jumps out from behind the rock at the same time. I round quickly on it. We fire at the same time.
Excruciating pain envelops my left forearm as a staple slams into it. The whistler is also hit. I watch as it slumps sideways, hitting the rock before falling face first at the base of the boulder. The force of the staple’s impact knocked my arm away from the foregrip. Looking down, I see the staple protruding, my arm already starting to grow numb.
Grabbing the end of the relatively thin metal, I pull. Agony replaces numbness. Sweat beads on my forehead and my breath quickens from the pain. But, I can’t let the staple remain in me. Every second counts. Taking in a deep shuddering breath, I steel myself for the coming agony. Taking hold again, I yank as hard as I can.
The pain rolling though my nerves sends me to my knees, my stomach threatening to empty. My teeth are clenched against the agony. But, I have the staple in my hand, the barbed points stained red with a couple of gathered drops of blood. I swoon with the pain, lightheaded. However, I know I can’t afford to pass out. There’s still another whistler out there.
Nauseous, I take hold of my carbine with my right hand. My left arm hangs at my side, the forearm from the elbow down numb and useless. I feel the numbing sensation begin climbing toward my shoulder. It won’t be long until I’m just a lump on the ground. Even though there’s only one whistler remaining, one will be enough once I’m completely incapacitated. I’m not overly keen on being chained and dragged behind a motorcycle.
Rising to my feet, I really only have one option at this point. I have to charge the creature before succumbing completely. Assuming it knows that I’ve been hit, all it has to do is bide its time and let the tranquilizer do its work. Keeping my weapon up and aimed as best I can, I move from my cover. Small stones and sand run downslope with each step I take. I keep focused on where I believe the whistler is hiding.
When I’m near its position, I hear rusting behind the boulder. I chose correctly. With my left arm now completely numb and the pain of ripping out the staple free a recent bad memory, I’m angry at being chased, angry at being shoved into these fucking worlds to live in misery, angry at being ripped from my family. I’m so fucking tired of being hounded with no sign of escape, tired of being used. And behind this stone is one of those who are sundering these worlds, responsible for my being dragged into this mess. If I could spend a hundred years tearing this beast apart, it would not be long enough. How dare it and its kind create circumstances that ripped me from my kids, from Lynn.
Holding the carbine in the crook of my good arm, I reach down and find a medium-sized stone. Tossing it downhill, I quickly round the other side of the boulder. Bringing my carbine up, the creature turns its head away from the distraction to stare directly into my barrel.
The moon crests the top of the ridge, bathing the entire slope in its silvery glow. The light enhances the stark whiteness of the whistler’s head, the deep folds of its skin even more repulsive. Tufts of hair sprout in random locations, making me wonder if this wasn’t some creature that was concocted or perhaps was once something else entirely. Dark eyes stare up, the entire orb black without any sclera. It starts to raise its arm where the staple gun is strapped.
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve been in this kind of situation, although certainly not one where my body is going numb. In the past, there have been times where I’ve felt a certain amount of pity, even through the intense rush of adrenaline. Perhaps it’s because I could empathize with my target's complete helplessness, knowing the inevitability that their life is about to end. However, I feel none of this as I face down the creature huddled behind this boulder. My anger is too great. This fucker was just sitting here waiting for me to go numb so it could easily overpower me without even a fight, wrap chains rusted with the blood of who knows how many others, and drag me behind a bike. Nope, no pity here. Not for thi
s one.
“You are one ugly motherfucker,” I state, firing point blank into its head.
Up close, the absorption of the impact is more detailed. The bullet enters, the hole closing right behind. I don’t know if they have a skeletal system like ours and there’s just a ton of fat around it, but I don’t see any sign bone of as the bullet drives deep. The folds of skin wobble, but other than this, there’s no sign that the round even struck. No exit wound, no entrance one either. The whistler slumps over and that’s that.
I win.
I stumble down the slope, wanting to reach the truck before the toxin in my system completely takes over. I keep my weapon ready and study the bodies lying among the tangle of bikes for movement. The last thing I need now is for there to be injured which might still impede me. Once I’m out, I’ll be completely helpless, so it’s necessary to make sure my environment is as safe as I can make it.
Reaching the bottom, my legs are already wobbling. I move through the debris, kicking bodies and making sure they’ve met their next life, whatever that may be. I reach the truck, tossing my carbine in the cab before climbing in one-handed. I close and lock the door, turning off the ignition. I don’t know how long this will put me out for, and I would hate to succumb to carbon monoxide. I also worry about night runners, should I be out for more than the day, but there’s not much I can do about that. Driving is out of the question—unless I want to freefall in the truck to the bottom of the ravine. I slump on the bench seat, staring out of the windshield at the stars shining above the towering ridgelines. There’s a pretty decent chance that this may be my last night alive. My thoughts turn to my family for what seems like the thousandth time.
“I love you, kiddos…I love you, Lynn,” I breathe to the universe above me as it all goes dark.
7
Jack Walker – Chapter Five
There’s a vast gulf of nothing, then comes a tiny spark of awareness. It slowly emerges from a great depth, pushing to the surface in a fog. I wouldn’t call it consciousness, but rather being aware of becoming aware. It spreads until I faintly realize that I’m still alive, but not much more than that. Something tight is wrapped around my arm as if someone is gripping it. The boot up process completes and I realize I’m lying on a bed of some sort.
Opening my eyes, everything is a blur that gradually sharpens over the next couple of moments. I’m in a small room made of concrete blocks and lying on a cot or thin bed. The pressure I feel on my arm is a bandage placed under my sleeve, covering the staple wounds. One side of the room is taken up by iron bars; a man stands on the other side. The uniform he’s wearing is nothing like I’ve ever seen. Various shades of brown mixed in a pattern kind of between a digital and tiger stripe.
Wait…I have seen that variation before…when I emerged from the cave into the battle. The squad members who were running up on the flank, the ones I engaged, were wearing something very similar if not the same. So, I’m in a jail cell being held by the military on that side. The only one who can actually put my face to that firefight is the medic I let go. I wonder now if that was a mistake.
I sit up, noticing that I’m still clad in my black fatigues with the shoelaces removed from my boots. My pack and weaponry are gone. The guard glances into the cell and grabs the mic clipped to his shoulder.
“The prisoner in cell six is awake.”
I rub my eyes, attempting to vanquish the last vestige of the fog still hanging around in my mind. My plan had been to locate a military base, and it looks like that’s turned out easier than I had imagined. However, I had originally thought to assimilate myself into the surrounding environs until a year had passed. There was a second plan, which I now have no choice but to attempt.
I look at the man’s rank insignia. The other Jack and I talked often about our military experiences when we were out on our nature hikes. Okay, we might have been out in nature, but the hikes were mostly composed of fleeing enemies. We shared stories and talked about the differences in our military structures. I thought we were just wasting time, but the knowledge he imparted might come in handy.
“Under Sergeant…why in the fuck am I in a cell?”
The large man looks over his shoulder, eyes me up and down, and turns back to staring forward. I’ll get nowhere with him. Nor should I, really, but I have to impart my outrage as part of the illusion I’m attempting to present. Before I can continue, there comes the sound of a door opening. The guard looks in that direction, pulls out a set of cuffs, and turns fully toward me.
“Stand up. Turn around and place your arms behind your back.”
I comply.
“Now back up to the bars.”
I again do as he says. He reaches through the bars and snaps the cuffs around my wrists.
“Step forward.”
When I do as he commands, he unlocks the cell, the door squealing on its hinges as he swings it open. Grabbing my arm, he leads me out of the room, guiding me to head down the hall and into another small room. Inside is a simple metal table with a half ring welded onto its top. Through the loop is a chain with attached manacles. A metal chair is on the far side with two more opposite. I’m placed in the single seat.
As the guard exchanges the cuffs for the manacles, I gaze about the room. There’s a camera-looking device in one corner, but the rest of the interior is bare with the exception of a single light fixture hanging from the ceiling. An air vent is off to one side, much too small to consider an escape hatch. I note that the table isn’t bolted to the floor, so I guess I could drag it along with me if it came down to it. I chuckle inwardly at the thought of escape through a military base dragging a table behind me. That would probably rank among the shortest getaways ever attempted.
When the sergeant is finished, he heads to the door and nods at someone on the other side. Two uniformed men step in and seat themselves opposite while the guard shuts the metal door. I notice from their insignias that one is a…what did Otter call it…oh yeah, an Under Major and a Junior Kapitan. Otter himself had said he was a Senior Kapitan.
“Sir,” I say to the major and nod at the junior officer.
The two glance at each other for a brief second before returning their attention to me.
“Let’s start with name, rank, and martial number,” the major commands, clicking a pen and putting it to the notepad to his front.
“Jack Walker, Senior Kapitan,” I begin. Now, for the number…that information was never shared by Otter, so I take a stab and give the men my original service number.
The major writes down the information, looking again to the other officer. “What unit were you with?”
“The 44th Aero Combat Squadron,” I answer.
The major sets down his pen and looks me in the eye.
“Dressed like that? I hardly think so. You’re Black Watch, that much we know. We find you without a name badge, without any rank, without any insignia whatsoever. You and I both know the punishment for spies, so please don’t attempt to question my intelligence,” he says. “You know you aren’t treading on very solid ground here, so anything you do answer might just help keep you alive.”
“Major, I’m Kapitan Jack Walker and I was with the 44th Aero Combat Squadron before I was captured. This,” I say, nodding toward my uniform, “was taken when I escaped. Go find my file, sir, and you’ll see.”
The major writes again, his pen pausing when he finished. “And your commanding officer?”
“Senior Kapitan Gorgaine,” I answer.
For the third time, the two officers share a glance, rise, and leave. A few moments later, the major returns. “Captured you say. In combat ops?”
“No, sir. I was given leave and was waylaid enroute to see my family, not too far away from camp,” I reply.
“How were you captured? Details, if you will.”
“Honestly, sir, that part is a little vague. I remember being stopped at a blockade of our troops. I was hit in the head while presenting my ID and the next thing I knew,
I woke up in a cell much like the one I just came from.”
My only hope to pull this off is to write the holes in my story off to a head injury. Lord knows I’ve had enough of them; if they bother to do a medical exam, they’ll find evidence of that. I know my friends certainly thought I had hit my head a few too many times. I might just remember enough information Otter shared, that the possibility exists of pulling this off. One of the problems I have is that I don’t know how long I was out, therefore I might be off a few days for the time I need to account for; maybe getting hit with the staple was a good thing—a reasonable excuse for gaps.
“Mmmhmmm…and how long ago was this?” the major asks.
I try to piece together Otter’s timeline. I assume he more or less went straight to Valhalla, although he did say he was with Trip, so he might have stuck around with him for a period of time. I backtrack as best I can to where he and Mike had met at the gym. I throw a little more in just to be sure because Otter had made it sound like he had been on the run for some time.
“How long ago did you find me, sir?” I inquire, both to stall and to put my own timeline back into order.
“You’ve been in the cell for two days,” the major answers.
I’m about to make a wild guess and hope the timeline works when the door opens again. The kapitan steps in carrying a folder. Behind him, another officer walks in and positions himself next to the door. The junior officer sets the folder on the table, seating himself. He opens the folder and the two seated men begin shuffling through the papers, looking up to me at intervals. At one point, the major holds up an obvious photo and compares it to the man sitting across from him.