by D Krauss
Instead of an answer, Collier got Dad’s sharp intake of breath. Collier blinked. There was an odd sound in the background. “Dad? What’s that? What’s wrong?”
“Coll,” Dad’s voice was quiet but Collier could read the underlying panic. His own rose. “Coll,” Dad repeated, “that’s the alarms.” Collier gasped. He could hear Snuffy barking now. “Dad!” he shouted.
“Coll,” the same quiet voice, but now steel underneath, “I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Dad!”
“It’s probably just another raccoon, but I gotta go see, and I gotta go right now.”
“Dad!” Collier was shrieking by now. Davis had him by the shoulders and the hangers-on were shouting “What’s wrong?” and Zell was out the door. “What’s going on?” and doors were opening all over the decks but Collier kept an iron grip on the receiver and screamed for Dad over and over. But the phone was dead.
22
You can prepare and drill and practice for the anticipated emergency, considering all possible responses, practicing them until they’re rote memory, but, when it actually happens, there is still that first moment of surprise and panic.
No amount of planning, no matter how finely honed, ever erases the conviction that the emergency, however conceived, just won’t happen. The river won’t rise, the hurricane goes elsewhere, the earth never shakes. Never.
John was in that moment, paralyzed, unable to breathe, gripping the cell phone, while from upstairs came the insistent whee whee whee. Snuffy wasn’t paralyzed; he’d jumped to the bottom of the stairs, ears up and hair bristling, barking at the alarm and glaring back at John, asking “What the hell is going on?” Good question, Snuff, but John was still frozen and that was damnable because he’d been through this before, when the raccoon got in, so you’d think he’d just spring up, ready for action. You’d think.
“No way.” That was his first thought; that was why he couldn’t move. Just no way.
The people in the Tower, standing at the window sipping a coffee, looking out and, surprise, isn’t that airplane coming right at us? No way. So they stood and stared, puzzled, realizing too late, just a few moments too late, what was about to happen. Like they could have sidestepped it or something, but, maybe a faster reaction would have given them a few extra seconds to go “Oh, shit” and dive under a desk and whip out their cell phones and call home and tell someone they haven’t told in months that they love them.
Oh, shit.
That broke the spell. “Snuffy! Shut up!” and the dog went to a growlwhine as John stood while the battle song roared in his ears and he was back in control and flowed, just flowed, to the landing, inventorying the .357 and tanto and .25 and let’s get the mini-14...
The lights went out.
Utter surprise, that, and he gasped, standing in pitch blackness, one foot on the stairs, his mind whirling. Getting caught by the alarm was one thing, this was another. The dark was like gauze pressed to his face, stifling, and he threw out his free hand against the wall, misjudging the distance and stoving a finger. Dammit! Complete disorientation.
What the hell did he do now?
Snuffy was pressing and whining against his supporting leg, threatening to topple him, and all he could do was stand there, unplanned. Light! Light! his mind screamed. Where in the hell did he put those candles and did he leave some matches next to them and when was the last time he checked and Jesus it’s so freakin’ dark, fuckin’ absolutely dark and he was completely unprepared.
Wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Lupus and Hairbag would start barking and the alarms would sound and he would move to the panel and look at the cameras and see what’s going on and relax because it’s another raccoon. Or arm up because it’s Vandals and engage the Claymores or slip out the back and engage by rifle but there was always going to be lights and power and the advantage of surprise.
Now who’s surprised?
His heart pounded and his eyes craved something so they started making dots and waves and that was distracting so John shut them tight. Didn’t help. All right, all right, get control. John gritted his teeth. Think, you idiot. The only noise was Snuffy’s whining but it’s nervous, not alarmed, so okay, whatever it is, it’s still distant so you’ve got time. Time. You know the house and the area so you’ve got advantage and, c’mon, face it, this may, very well, be nothing more than some water in the lines, yeah, maybe that’s it, that’s all, caused the alarms to go and the power to cut and all he had ahead of him was one bitch of a job replacing cables.
He took a breath, a sense of relief washing through him. Things might be all right. You may have scared Collier to death for no reason. Good, good, getting that grip, heart slowing down, hyperventilation over.
Now, see to this. Hell, see, period. A dungeon in here and he didn’t want to break a shin stumbling around. Reflexively, John squeezed the cell phone and suddenly there was a pool of green light illuminating the steps.
He laughed. Dumbass, had a flashlight in your hand the whole time. He waved the corpse light around, a corpse’s view, and oriented himself. So, where were those damn candles... hey, wait, why bother with candles? The NVGs were on the dining room table.
Perfect.
John walked upstairs, guided by the phone light, while Snuffy, big coward, pressed from behind. He grabbed the goggles and put them over his glasses and turned them on. Vision, blessed vision, even if it was still corpse light green.
No use looking at the panel. He had to go outside. Better do a little recon first – while this was likely a mechanical problem, you never knew, and he shouldn’t just stroll out of the house whistling, as if he was going to replace the porch light or something. He moved toward the kitchen door, telling himself to take it easy, open it gently, just a crack, nothing fast, nothing betraying, you’ll be all right. You’re safe in here...
John froze, because a line from a movie suddenly jumped into his head. “Fortifications are a monument to man’s stupidity.” Something like that, from Patton, George C. Scott in character, expressing his contempt for the Siegfried line. He’d need to see it again to get the quote just right, but the sense of it, oh, yes, he grasped that, and chills shook him.
He’d built his own Siegfried, hadn’t he, with redundant generators and power sources and fighting positions and cameras and alarms, feeling rather smug while doing so. Monumental stupidity. Nineveh, Tyre, they fell, as did Constantinople and the Alamo and the Western Wall and, yes, the Siegfried. So did the US.
And so will he.
His confidence, well maintained to this point, cracked and shuddered and crashed around his feet. Hubris. In this anarchic nightmare post 9/11 world, there he was, smarter than the average bear and no one’s going to get the best of him, nosireebob. Nobody out there among the 15-20,000 immediate Survivors could outthink him, could they? Oh no, not at all, as the war grew closer and the shooting around the campus more continuous and a savaged body was left for his amusement and someone launched a full-scale attack on MPD.
Nope, don’ mean nothin’, and he just blithely biked back and forth, five days a week from the Siegfried to the heart of the beast, setting a pattern, arrogantly thinking he wasn’t, pointing a big red neon light right back at the house.
You moron, you brought them down on you.
John stood for a moment, blinking in the green world. Okay, your fault. Now, let’s take care of this, shall we?
Snuffy had worked his way between John’s legs and was standing at the jamb with his tail down, looking defensive, hearing something John wasn’t. John kneed him out the way and cocked his ear to the door window. Yep, there it was, a thumping sound, like something falling or, more likely, someone falling. John held his breath. A crash, loud now, the sound of glass and wood breaking so no doubt about it, this was an attack.
All right, take a moment, get control, don’t panic, above all, don’t panic. Consider the situation. It’s all next door. They’ve taken the bait and are looking for him there.
Advantage, but power’s out so no panels so he didn’t know how many so advantage diminished. To get it back, he needed information, and quickly.
He fished the keys out of his pocket and, brushing the handle of the .357 for luck, unlocked the door, thanking God he regularly oiled the hinges. Slowly, he pulled it open and peered out.
The world was green and bright, the moonlight fueling the NVGs. A group of people, about twenty, leather-clad and long-haired and dreadlocked, spiked chains around their necks, weapons, so many weapons, strapped across backs or hanging from hips or clutched in hands, maces and knives and guns and clubs and rifles, definitely rifles, assault types, were scattered between the driveway and the neighbor’s side yard. Another twenty or so were running to and fro around the back of the neighbor’s house. Certainly were a lot of them. And a lot of them were wearing night vision.
Oh, shit.
Hastily, John shut the door, stood back, and told himself, again, not to panic. Yeah, right. Pretty quick, they’re going to see the cables leading out the neighbor’s and into the ground and pointing oh so clearly at his door. If you’re going to do something, John ole boy, you better do it now.
Faster than he should, especially with Snuffy hugging his legs, he crossed to the living room, grabbed the panel off the table, and quickly checked the wires while matching them to the proper numbers. He uncapped the plunger and, for just a second, hesitated. Oh man, has it come to this? Yep. He pulled it up, switching the connection to the master control, twisted and pushed down hard.
All self-contained, this, it generated its own spark and, even though the wire was about twenty yards long, no problem. Not much of a spark was needed, just a hint, actually.
John felt the shaking of the house at the same time as he heard the sharp roar of an explosion. That was satisfying. At least this part of his defenses was working. He could imagine it, the Claymores spraying the inside of the neighbor’s with grapeshot, a gigantic shotgun blasting huge lead balls every which way faster than the speed of sound, blowing out windows and doors with the overpressure alone, wreaking death on everyone inside and havoc on everyone outside.
He would have a lot of cleaning up to do.
No time to gloat, though. He slapped the .357, the tanto, and the .25 in sequence as he raced up the stairs, depth perception be damned, and grabbed the mini-14 from the pegs over the bed, ensured a full clip in it and grabbed the additional clip he kept on the nightstand. He ran down the stairs but stopped on the landing because the NVGs suddenly bloomed. Too much light and he ripped the goggles over his head and blinked away the green flowers, readjusted his skewed glasses, and peered hard at the door.
It was glowing, red and yellow light pouring through the curtained window, illuminating everything, making the NVGs superfluous. Must be the fireball from the explosion. Wow, big one. John heard screams and curses and running and, couldn’t help it, smiled. That’s for Lupus and Hairbag, you fucks. Killed the dogs, did you? Well, I am going to kill all of you.
Battle blood raged in John’s ears and heart and eyes and he was Mars and Kali and the gods of all death and he will tear out their hearts and sate himself on their meat. Snuffy was entwined about his feet and howling and he kicked the dog away. No time to attend to you, pup. War is on us.
There was a loud crash to his left and John instinctively ducked, turning towards the French doors. Frantic movement there and then another crash and the butt end of some kind of rifle broke through the panes. A lot of jostling around that smashed point meant a lot of people, and John brought up the 14 and let loose. Screams and jerky movement told John he was hitting those people. He emptied about half the clip and the movement from the door was clearing and he was winning, by God...
The whole world lit up.
John smacked back hard against the stairwell, the concussion from the flash grenade hitting him before the sound. Double whammy. His brain scrambled, which is what flash grenades were designed to do. Snuffy began howling somewhere in the living room and John looked for him but was too dazzled and thought maybe if he just used the NVGs he’d regain his sight and his balance and clarity and he pawed at his head before it occurred to him the last thing he needed right now was more light. There was plenty of that. Get a grip, get a grip, do something, anything, gotta come out of this.
He swayed towards the French doors and, just on instinct, fired a few rounds that way. That should make them cautious.
All right, okay, settle down, settle down, you’re not hurt, you’re not. Come on, man, pull it together. John took a breath and felt his mind falling back to its normal position.
Good, but you’ve lost time and, damn, now someone was smashing at the front door. John looked over. The neighbor’s burning house was lighting up everything rather well, to the point he could see the front door starting to buckle from whatever was being used on it.
Well, they’re going to have a hard time getting in that way because John had two huge plastic trashcans filled with old Christmas stuff blocking the foyer. All the lights and ornaments and even the plastic tree he’d bought in Florida in 1979 and subsequently, lugged around the world were in there. He set it all up every year, minus the outside lights since the Event, of course. This past season, he’d convinced himself it was pointless to put everything back into the attic so he packed everything into the trashcans, instead. He never used the front door anyway. Now wasn’t he glad he’d succumbed to laziness?
A fusillade of shots sprayed from the French doors, a real firestorm and John ducked into the stairwell. Snuffy screamed and howled, twisting on the living room floor. Sonofabitch, they’ve hit him. John cursed as he watched the dog writhing in pain and blood. There was nothing he could do. Bastards, you bastards.
He turned the 14 towards the French doors and let off about ten rounds. “Fuckers!” he cried. They fired back in fury, screaming some kind of inarticulate battle cry. Well, two can play that, and John roared, some long drawn syllable of defiance. Kill my dog, huh?
He raked the French doors with about six more shots and they redoubled their return fire, bullets flying past John’s stairwell haven and into the front door and wall, shattering the picture window. More light from the burning neighbor’s house poured in, as did a volley from the cretins at the front, zipping past John and out the French doors.
John watched in amazement. These idiots were killing each other!
Bullets flew back and forth ripping up the living room, blasting furniture apart, gouging out the walls and tearing up the carpet and there were screams and curses and fire and shrapnel. The display case against the far wall evaporated and all those beautiful Andrea bird-and-flower figurines and cool Norman Rockwell statues Theresa picked up in Okinawa fragmented and went flying, scything the air with deadly shards.
He couldn’t see Snuffy – must be down out of view. His house and memories were being shredded but John almost burst out laughing because these guys were doing his job for him. They had John flanked, but so what?
The least he could do was exacerbate the situation so he fired the rest of the clip at the French doors and was rewarded with a redoubling of fire back into the house and out the front. He dropped the clip and slapped in a fresh one as the guys in the front raged and cut loose back out the French doors and this time he couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. This was too damned easy! John busted off about ten rounds both front and back, thoroughly enjoying himself.
Suddenly, a loud voice roared out some kind of order, the exact words lost but the tone of it clear and commanding. The shots from out front stopped and the ones from the back stopped a few moments later. The voice bellowed some more, rich and deep and sonorous and John knew who it was, the chief of these maggots, who had realized what was happening. So, possibly not an idiot.
Which probably meant the fun was over.
John heard the clink of broken glass, hesitant movement from the French doors. There was movement at the picture window, too, and someone started pounding on the front doo
r again and then someone was turning the kitchen doorknob, opposite John on his line of sight. Flashlights lanced in from front and back. Well, we can’t have that, can we? John fired five quick shots in both directions and a couple out the kitchen door.
All hell broke loose. Two more flash grenades blew up in the dining room, dazzling John, although the stairwell protected him from most of the effects. Bullets again poured from the back and front and somebody began blasting through the kitchen door, which was most unfortunate, those rounds splintering the stairwell wall and whizzing past John’s head. The step he was sitting on shattered into wood pulp as the guy from the kitchen stitched it.
Why John hadn’t been cut in half, he didn’t know, but, obviously he couldn’t stay here. He fired toward the kitchen and then crabbed up the stairs, trying to blink away the white spots swimming in his vision while Kitchen Boy’s shots followed him up. Man, could they see him or were they just guessing?
John let off several more rounds as he reached the top and ducked around the wall, hugging the linen closet next to the hallway bathroom, safe for the moment. He took in a deep breath.
Jesus.
Kitchen Boy started firing again and John watched as rounds ripped up the landing wall opposite him. More fire poured in from the back and front but that stopped after a few moments and he heard, again, the sounds of hesitant movement. They’re coming in, that is, if they can get Kitchen Boy to stop shooting. John was out of harm’s way here, so he could afford a few minutes break.
A few minutes. That was about all the time he had left. Face it, you’re screwed. His only option was retreat into the bedroom, and he had only one bad option after that, jumping out the window, but it was a second story, so he would most likely break a leg. What’s that old poem? The best laid plans... yeah, yeah.
He couldn’t help chuckling. If this was an old war movie, he’d light a cigarette right now. Hell, a cigar would be better. Maybe he should go down in the living room and get one. John chuckled some more. Resignation has quite the calming effect. Take a few moments, catch the breath, relax a bit, quickly review the last forty years or so and have a regret or two, and then go into the bedroom and get ready.