by wade coleman
“Mark 6,” she puts on her shirt.
I put on mine, “How is it…you know…”
Zipping her pants, she says, “You mean, how is it sharing your body with another person on a level of intimacy that you’ll never share with your husband and now ex-husband?” Her voice cracks a little.
“Yeah…that’s what I meant,” but my voice trails off, thinking about just how true her words are.
“I have to get back to work. You stay here until I come for you.” She points to a street bike. “In the satchels are blankets and a satellite phone. “Get some rest; you’ve earned it.”
Vanyah leaves while I lay the blanket next to the motorcycle. Using loose hemp straw as a pillow, I lay down and close my eyes.
“Darling, we should have sex more often.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I reply.
“Anger can be satisfying if you get to hit somebody. Otherwise, it’s frustrating. Fear can be fun, but it’s also scary. But sex, darling…that just feels good, not just during, but afterward. Right now, I feel relaxed, calm, don’t you?”
“Yeah…I agree. But I’ve never had much luck with women. My cold skin at night is a secret I’m not willing to share with just anyone.”
“No problem, we’ll just have sex during the day.”
I don’t want to get into the details of a relationship with her, so I let her comment pass and drift off to sleep.
* * *
I awaken when Vanyah touches my shoulder. She’s sitting on a hemp bale, looking down at me with a slight smile. “Got your strength back?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for being…accommodating.”
Vanyah shrugs. “I understand. Got a big mission and you need to let off some steam.” I get up, and she pats my butt. “And you, Hermes, are a powder keg.”
Getting on my bike, I look into her violet eyes. “Thanks…for everything.”
“Anything for the mission,” Vanyah says with her slight elfish smile. She turns and points. “A mile north is the old Highway 4; now it’s 101 Delta Highway It’s filled with jackals on the prowl. You want to stay off of that road as long as you can.”
Natasha pulls up the map of the area. “I’ll stay in the hemp fields as long as I can, and then-”
“Drive fast,” Vanyah finishes my sentence.
I get on my bike, put on my helmet and drive away. “Natasha,” I say “Show me a compass.”
A north arrow appears, and I find a row of hemp going west. I come to a county road, I stop and listen to the night. When it’s quiet, all I can hear is a high-pitched whine like a mosquito. I feel blind with my hearing loss. The best eyes in the world can’t see around corners.
I cross two more dirt roads before the lights of South Frisco are north of me. I drive towards the light, but after a few minutes, I run out of hemp to hide behind.
“Natasha, what’s the plan?”
“Darling, you have the key card of a man who works in the transportation department. While you slept, I’ve changed your face to match his. You are to access the traffic control computer and make all the lights blink red at 8 PM.”
Heading to Frisco doing ninety on a straight stretch of asphalt, I say, “Natasha, pick some music for the road.”
For a while, the sound of intense violins and then horns blast in my head. “Natasha, what the hell is that?”
“Wilhelm Wagner, Flight of the Valkyries.”
“No, that’s all wrong. We’re riding into town doing ninety with a new nervous system. What I need has two cords and a driving beat.”
“So, darling, are you feeling like a bad boy?” she asks in a sultry tone.
“Yeah, but don’t say it like that.”
From every point in space roars to life the opening riff of Highway to Hell. When the second verse starts, “No stop signs, speed limit, nobody’s gonna slow me down,” I decide - since this is a loaner bike - fuck the motor, I take it to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. The city lights close in fast. I scream with Bon Scott: “I’m on my way to the promised land…” over the roar of the wind whipping around my helmet.
On the side of the road are two men on bikes. They don’t even bother to try and catch me. Damn.
Slowing down, I make the turn onto the highway leading downtown. The road is empty of the delivery trucks that are normally out at this time of night.
Ahead is a checkpoint. Several guards point rifles at me, and I slow down. Natasha cuts off the music when I stop. A mutant with overly large hands checks my ID.
“If you go into the city, you can’t leave.”
“I know. That’s why my boss sent me. I’m a Type 3A mutant. We don’t get sick.”
He hands me back my ID. “Lucky fucking bastard.”
I drive past a sign that says, “You are now under quarantine.” Routed through a few more detours and checkpoints, I reach the garage before the sunset curfew. Hurrying across the street, I check in at the front desk. It’s the same hotel Kim stayed at two weeks ago.
After paying cash, I get a room on the fourth floor. Once inside, I step out onto the balcony and watch the sunset, the smell of tear gas and burning tires on the wind. In the distance are the sounds of protest, people shouting together, their combined voices sounding like a low roar.
The streets are filled with mutants, and the air is electric with their anger. A Pureblood Mayer first declared there was no virus and then put Frisco under a quarantine. When that happened, the mutant community snapped. Now the mutant mob wants his blood.
I dress for the night in three layers of armor: spider-silk undergarment, vest, and bullet-resistant clothing. After checking my tools, I put on my ball-cap, climb down the fire escape, and head to the county building.
Mutants are in the streets. Some are carrying supplies and running away from the gunfire in the distance. Other people have weapons and are moving towards the fight.
The red LED street lights provide illumination. The backup batteries in the poles will provide light for days.
I use the web of shadows to travel a block at a time. A few minutes and I am a block away from the Civic Center Tower. The harsh glare of floodlights destroys the shadow web, so I cover the last block on foot.
The National Guard has set up a bunker made of sandbags. They guard the entrance to the Civic Center.
I huddle by the side of the building with several other mutants. A barrage of thirty caliber rifles from the bunker forces back a group of well-armed mutants. Standing there in an intersection holding a 50-caliber rifle in body armor is Teshi, a guy I used to go to school with up until the sixth grade. Teshi is a troll who joined the Army when he was sixteen.
“Teshi!” I yell over the weapon’s fire.
He looks over, sees me, and starts moving in my direction. Rounds from thirty caliber rifles bounce off his armor and a thick hide. He ducks behind the building. “Who the hell are you?”
I forgot I have the face of another man. “It’s me…Hermes.”
A puzzled look crosses his face. “Are you shitting me?”
Pulling out two flash-bang grenades from my vest pockets, “Who…me?”
Teshi throws his head back and laughs, sounding like a roar. He looks at me and smiles, exposing sharpened teeth. “Fuck me; you are Hermes.” He squints, “Bro, what are you doing here?”
“Me? I’m here to get my driver’s license renewed. How about you?”
Sporadic gunfire continues from different locations.
“If I’m gonna die, it’s gonna be with a gun in my hand, not in a sick bed. A lot of my friends feel the same way, so we’re storming the Civic Center. The machine gun bunker held us up.” The troll points his finger as thick as a roll of half dollars at my chest. “You were quite the little schemer growing up. What’s your plan?”
I pull the pins on the flash-bang grenades. “I’m going to take out the machine gun nest while you and your friends shoot out the Plexiglas front door. Then I’m going inside.”
�
�Little big man, if you pull this off, it will be fucking epic.” He gets out a walkie-talkie and keys the mic. “Listen up, ladies,” Teshi fills his friends in on the plan. He puts a fresh clip in his rifle. “You ready?”
“Give me a sec.” Peeking around the corner, I see a searchlight illuminating the front of the Civic Center. The light casts a shadow that falls on the steps. Behind is a sandbag bunker housing the machine guns. Pointing to the other side of the street, “I’m going to cross the street and hide in that shadow, then make my way to the bunker.”
Teshi walks out into the intersection and fires while I sprint to the other side of the street. Diving into the shadow, it swallows me up.
I think about the shadow on the steps to the Civic Center and then reform. To my right is a fountain that was converted into a bunker with a metal roof. Men shoot standing up through the gaps in the sandbags. The guard men are firing at Teshi. Teshi and his friends are shooting at the front door, the reinforced plastic holding.
I dash to the machine gun nest and throw the first flash-bang inside the opening while holding onto the second grenade. People start swearing, and the grenade goes off. I look inside. Nope, they’re not wearing hearing or eye protection.
Climbing the stairs, I notice the Plexiglas door is destroyed by the weapons fire. Teshi and his posse stop shooting when they see me climb the steps to the entrance, and then they run towards me.
“Natasha, I need to step lively.”
Natasha speeds me up, and the world slows down. Walking through the front door, I spot some armed men behind a makeshift barricade. Tossing the flash-bang behind their shelter, I move to the elevators down the hall. As soon as I press the button, Natasha slows me down.
The flash and bang goes off at the entrance and soon after the door opens. It takes me to the sixth floor.
Mike Cassidy is an employee of the Department of Transportation. His cubicle is a four-by-four space with five-foot-high plastic dividers. I run his pass key over the reader, and the terminal lights up. Natasha enters the password, and then I insert a flash drive, and a program starts uploading.
“Natasha, let’s see if the backdoor into Mercy Hospital is still there.”
She pulls up the account. In the last week, over two million credits in equipment and meds have been purchased. It’s being stored off-site in a bonded warehouse just out of town. I text Dad the location by satellite phone.
Natasha checks the backdoor installed on the Blue Algae Corporate jet account. The last place they purchased fuel was in LA. It’s filed a flight plan with a takeoff scheduled for 6:00 AM. I check the weather in LA, and it just happens to be ideal for aerial spraying of the virus.
I text Daniel again.
The program runs and then sets up the logic bomb for 8 PM – which is only ten minutes from now. With traffic lights disabled, it will be difficult to move against the refugees leaving the Broadmoor.
I go to the hall and push the elevator button, but nothing happens. Opening the door to the stairwell, I can hear shouts below and gunfire a few floors down. Walking up the twelve flights of stairs to the twentieth floor, I rest for a minute and then try the passkey. The stairwell door opens.
The hallway floor is the same marble as the entrance. A door to the right says, Mayor. Walking out onto the mayor’s balcony, the ground is lit by small fires. People are still pouring into the building. Standing there on the balcony, I watch a helicopter land on the roof. Heading back to the stairs, I go up to the roof.
A dozen people are waiting to board a Sikorsky helicopter. Slipping in, I join the crowd and file into the back of the helicopter. The seats fill up, so I sit in the aisle in the back. Twenty minutes later, the helicopter lands at the airport; people file out of the craft while I hide in the shadows. I’ve stolen cars and bikes, but never a helicopter. I wonder how much they cost.
Once the people unload, the helicopter takes off and heads back to the city. In mid-flight, I emerge from the darkness. The crew chief is standing right in front of me, and I clock him in the jaw. He goes down, and I head to the cockpit. All aircraft have secure compartments for the pilot. Since the aircraft is empty of passengers, the cockpit door is open.
The roar of the helicopter blades allows me to move silently, and I pass through the door. The pilot’s sidearm is slung over the back of his chair. I take the pistol out of the holster, remove the clip, toss the gun to the other side of the door and then close it. Still, the pilot is too engrossed to notice me just behind his chair, so I drop the clip in his lap.
He looks down, then up at me.
“Hi, I’ll be your hijacker for tonight.” I look at his name tag. “Jensen, I’m wearing state-of-the-art armor. My hands are like hammers. And I don’t need you to fly this helicopter.” I stand to his side, putting my hand on his shoulder. “What do you say you fly me over to Broadmoor?”
He doesn’t answer, just changes direction. Flying over Broadmoor, I notice that the lights are all out. Below is nothing but darkness. Taking the goggles out of my vest, I put them on, zoom in and look in the infrared. In the distance, a ribbon of red heat signatures from cars and trucks line the highway. I point, and he flies in that direction.
Natasha shows me a translucent map and says, “The convoy is heading west on the old Highway 24. It used to be paved and still is, but it’s covered with a meter of silt.”
As we get closer, I spot specks of light coming from the headlights of bikes. They’re closing in on the convoy.
I call Pam on the sat phone Vanyah gave me. She answers on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Don’t shoot. That’s me in the helicopter.”
“Hermes, what’s going on?” she sounds voice worried.
“Bad guys on motorcycles closing in on your position. They’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Hold on…” A few minutes later she says, “Land at the back of the convoy.”
After I tell the pilot what’s going on, he lands the Sikorsky. Men with weapons are everywhere, surrounding the craft. The pilot and I exit with our hands up.
Captain Fields is there to greet me. He’s wearing a suit of armor which covers his torso. It looks like a black beetle shell. “Report.”
I bristle at his command; he sounds too much like my Dad. But I let it go, “When the Civic Center was breached, they sent a helicopter to pick up people and drop them off at the Aviation Center. There were planes on the tarmac ready to take them away.” I cross my arms and smile. “I didn’t see the mayor. Hopefully, he didn’t get away.”
“What about the bikes and their riders?”
Pointing west, “In about five minutes, about fifty bikers are going to ride down on you.”
I watch a crew of men mount a fifty caliber on the Sikorsky weapon’s mount. A man dressed from head to toe in beetle shell armor takes up position behind the weapon. We step away from the helicopter as it whines to life, then takes off.
The convoy is parked on a gravel section of the road; the vehicles are arranged, so they block the width of the highway. Inside the fence of cars are islands where people huddle in groups. Ahead, a row of headlights from motorcycles casts a haze of light in the distance.
Captain Fields calls a huddle. A dozen men and women stand in a circle. Everyone is wearing goggles and helmets with headsets while brandishing twenty caliber semi-automatic rifles.
“This convoy is like one long train,” Captain Fields says. “Plenty of places to breach our perimeter. We’re going to use a zone defense. Our job is to protect the back of the train. I don’t have to tell you that the stakes are high, so let me make this clear…you shoot to kill, no prisoners. You treat them like a rabid dog.”
I think about what happened at the Civic Center. The crowd that stormed the building were mad with hate. These mutants are mad with pain.
Some people get angry with the system and take it out on everyone. These mutants live hard and die young. The ones riding toward us are on meth and a couple of other drugs, so they don’
t feel any pain. They will be hard to put down as the captain says. Someone breaks my train of thought by throwing a helmet into my gut.
I put it on and adjust my goggles to low light. A woman dressed in full beetle shell armor tosses me a pistol. She’s a dwarf, broad shoulders and hips.
I toss it back, “Do you have a club?”
She puts the pistol back in her holster and gives me her baton. “A close combat man…stay behind us and catch the bad guys if they breach the perimeter.”
The whine of electric motors gets louder. The captain tosses me a full med kit. “Are you still certified as an EMT?”
“Yep.” After stuffing the backpack under a car next to me, I notice the headlights are close enough to cast shadows. I step in, wrap the shadows around me, and the headlights get dimmer. A barrage of bullets comes from rifles mounted to the front of the ghoul’s bikes.
The troops with rifles hold position and fire short three round bursts. The results are devastating. Bikes drop and litter the road with obstacles for the riders behind them. This gives the soldiers more time to pick their targets.
A troll is carrying a tower shield made of steel advances with mutants behind him.
A grenade rolls near me and I yell, “Natasha!” The world slows down. I reach over, grab the grenade and throw it behind the approaching troll. It seems like an entire minute passes before it explodes. The formation of men behind the giant breaks up, and the troll falls back.
Hearing a scream, I put one hand on the med kit, the other into a shadow created by the headlights of all the downed bikes. The shadow reaches back and yanks me in. After locating the scream, I reform.
The dwarf woman has one biker grabbing her rifle while the other shoots her with his pistol, trying to find a weakness in her armor. A bullet bounces off her armor and into the foot of another mutant beating her helmet with the rifle butt. He swears and drops to the ground.
After dropping the backpack, I flick open the baton. All those motorcycle riders and none of them are wearing a helmet.
I walk up to a mutant with long fingers who has his hands wrapped around the dwarf’s rifle. Raising the baton, I bring it down to the top of his head. The skull makes a cracking sound, a shiver goes through his body, and he drops. That’s when I notice everything has slowed down again. I raise my arm once more and come down on the man with the pistol. This time I use less force, or at least I think I do. I watch in slow motion as the little ball on the end of the baton enters his skull.