by D W Bell
Like everything else in this land of make believe, the walls were hollow and about as fortified as papier-mâché. Their only protection had been a faux-stone lie, complete with camera-ready texture, and now they would all surely die.
On the ground Father Dmitri clambered atop the van to kneel next to his departed brother, quickly blessed the body of the martyred man, crossing him with fingers forming the Greek initials for Jesus Christ in the Orthodox manner, then unceremoniously tossed the corpse to the ground below, an empty husk. Locking eyes with Master Fu and simply nodding to acknowledge the grievous loss, he manned the vacant firing position and brought the devastating weapon back into play.
“Damn.” Master Fu scowled, spit on the ground, and made the decision.
Tossing a couple smoke grenades on the bullet-riddled pavement between the pillars of the gate forward of their position to screen their tactical withdrawal the grim tiger roared, “Let’s move!”
With the miniguns still laying down withering cover fire through the portal now curtained by smoke, several of the monks charged ahead into the no man’s land before them and scattered explosive caltrops, sowing the wind so the whirlwind may be reaped by those who would soon trod the fertile field. To perform a kindness for these bedeviled human beings by illuminating the path for their arriving guests. They would not pass this way again.
―
Boudreaux was laughing, wild-eyed and crazy, as he rapidly swiped through helmet, drone, and bodycam footage from hundreds of sources. The techs had even hacked and commandeered the compound’s civilian security cameras for high-angle stationary shots. “That stupid bitch blew a hole in the wall! It’s perfect!” Wracked with laughter the little devil contorted in his chair and called out, “Robert!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Allocate some drones to the hole in the wall. I want footage of the vanguard charging through the breach with the explosions behind them. This is going to be a cinematic masterpiece!”
“Aye, sir!”
“We’re birthing a new theatrical genre here, kiddos! Epic snuff films! Not quite a cast of thousands, but think of the possibilities! High-concept war porn!” Giggling at his deathly decadent brilliance, Boudreaux decided he deserved another drink. Now that things were back under his firm control.
―
John felt more than heard the suppressed rounds pierce the air and thud into the tree trunk that saved his life, all but one that slammed into his back plate and tossed him forward, stumbling to keep his feet.
He lunged for salvation, shuffling serpentine through the hanging limbs, and crouching behind and beneath the trunk of the juvenile Ficus religiosa, as indicated by its polished brass plaque, indiscriminately spraying .45 ACP from his MP5 in the general direction that the shots had come from as he ducked and covered.
The transmission broke up with raucous, fatalistic laughter from all channels. Even John chuckled at the eternal, gallows-humor ribbing between soldiers at times of war and life-threatening danger.
―
“Sir, their units have fallen back from the gate and are retreating deeper into the compound. Our advancing elements are reporting that the main gate has been made impassable by explosive booby-traps. They have suffered some casualties, dead and wounded, but await your orders.”
Boudreaux swirled his glass of green magic, now untainted by the purity of water, and thought for a moment. With the cold, emotionless, calculated tone of a director concerned only with his art he asked, “Did we get the shots of them coming in the gate?”
Detached as he must be to survive while indentured in this organization, but feeling dirty inside, Robert answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Splendid! I want you to send constant location updates to all assets. Let’s inject a little cinéma-vérité into the mix. William, patch me into all the comms!”
A few clicks and snicks of keys and switches, “Your mic is hot, sir.”
―
John crouched with his back to the bodhi tree, submachine gun at the ready, and waited. A few more suppressed bursts raked the trunks and branches around him in an attempt to flush him out. He muttered a mocking prayer under his breath for no god in particular to hasten the arrival of the cavalry, “Okay, assholes. I’m fucking enlightened now. Swoop in and save me already!”
As if on cue, the divine intervened. A long whispering burst that didn’t thunk into the protective wood around him, the fleshy thud of falling bodies, and then it was quiet. Except for the distant sound of raging warfare in the other areas of the compound, the garden was downright peaceful. Someone on the other side of the tree curtain started whistling a happy little tune. Probably one of the monks he thought, cheerful bunch that they were.
Elated, John burst from cover to greet and join his saviors in fellowship, “Jesus Christ! It took ya’ll long enough…” His weapon came up instinctually, but something held his fire. Baffled by the scene before him he shouted, “Show me your hands, motherfucker!”
The sudden shift had been brought about by the discovery of one of Boudreaux’s operators looting the corpses of his erstwhile comrades of ammo and explosives, whistling. The stranger smiled and raised his hands, palms out, to placate him, but was clearly unafraid of John, or death for that matter.
Still smiling amicably, the corners of his mouth matching a ragged scar across his throat, the man slowly reached down and grabbed an ammo pouch he had been filling and tossed it at John’s booted feet. John glanced down and saw they would fit his weapon. This group had been running MP5s too. Muzzle still trained on his unexpected benefactor John activated his throat mic.
The man winked, yanked his location and vitals monitor rig off his chest, and offered John a stick of gum.
―
“Sir! Half the varsity team just went down!”
With a perturbed grunt Boudreaux asked, “Which squad?”
“Golem’s. He was the last to go down.”
“A soldier to the end, I’m sure. Did we get the shots?”
“No, sir. The garden drones were pulled to cover the wall assault. As you ordered.” There was a sharp intake of breath as the technician realized what he had said. Chalk it up to stress of the job or heat of the moment, but he had surely stepped in it. It had been proven by the fate of previous commentators and questioners to be mortally unhealthful to point out or acknowledge any flaw in Boudreaux’s person or plans. All the operators cringed in anticipation of the director’s reaction.
“A pity.” The technicians waited in terror, no one looking at their condemned colleague as he cast his eyes about for help, and Boudreaux paused for a drin
k. “Whatever scene that evolved to destroy nine top-tier operators would surely have been great footage. Set in a botanical garden no less. Shameful. You should have known to leave a skeleton crew of cams to cover any eventuality. Amateurish. Rookie mistake. Lesson learned.”
The tension in the room relaxed slightly as the drone crew realized that whatever was fated to happen to the one who spoke out would not happen now and in front of them, as had been the case in the past to ensure there would be no misunderstanding among those who remained. Boudreaux seemed too busy with his war movie masterpiece for now, but they refused to acknowledge the nonperson still desperately performing his duties.
“How are things looking with the horde?”
“Outstanding, Sir. I’ve got dedicated drone orbits on the more promising units and auxiliaries running on all the peripherals. It’s pandemonium down there.”
“Fabulous.”
―
Master Fu sat perplexed for a moment in the passenger seat of one of the battle vans as they raced deeper into the compound, trying to get ahead of the breach and reset. Realizing not having to rescue John would buy them more time to dig in at the secondary, it was located in another part of the garden anyway, and that all life was a gamble, he made the decision and signaled Father Dmitri to proceed directly to the alternate rendezvous. “Fuck it.”
Master Fu chuckled with the roar of the engine and the squeal of the brakes as they skidded into their destination. “Mysterious ways. Right, brother?”
Father Dmitri grinned and shrugged sheepishly as he got out of the truck to direct the reformation of the mobile fortifications.
―
“Okay, asshole. Do you know where the women are being kept?” The other man nodded in answer to John. “Do you speak?” The stranger ran his thumb across his scarred throat, pantomiming a knife slicing. John understood. “Good. Then I won’t have to tell you to shut the fuck up. Lead the way. If you try and fuck me by leading me back to your friends, you die first.”
Golem rolled his eyes with mirth at the other man’s posturing and, giving the universal signal to follow, set off at a trot. John scanned the perfect imperfections of the intelligently designed garden one last time and followed suit.
Chapter 35
Of course they were all pregnant. What had he been thinking? Foolishly, John had visualized all the women as fighting fit, like his lost Freya, but there they were, in various states and stages of roundness, some about to pop, heavily laden with Boudreaux’s bellicose belly fruit.
There would be no sprint across the compound and vault over the wall like a troupe of defecting gymnasts, as had been John’s ridiculous vision of a backup plan. No, at this point the best he could do would be to march the mothers along at the speed of the slowest waddle, and that would get them caught and killed quickly in the chaos going down outside. Golem snickered softly at him, knowing full well the weighty problem he was faced with.
His unlikely benefactor had led him directly to where the women were being kept, mercifully avoiding drone detection as all eyes in the sky were focused on the battle raging around them. As it turns out the ladies were being housed in the main mansion, or “The Big House” as the late pastor always referred to it, albeit confined to the massive media room with its multitude of comfortable chairs.
They had taken fire earlier upon entering the foyer of the large and luxurious building, John thought he was betrayed as his guide disappeared from his side but was reassured when the bodies of the guards began to drop, having been shot in the back. Golem knew the layout of the house and had circled around for the advantage accordingly, but despite the quick tactical thinking John had been hit several times, once in his unprotected gut. Although they had patched him up as best they could, his mobility would be little better than the pregnant girls.
The men had been greeted with screams as they burst into and cleared the media room after the gunfight, but the young mothers quickly got the message of rescue, despite several language barriers, and readied to leave. Some even looted the weapons and other dangerous kit from the bodies of their former guards to assist in the operation.
Bad-ass bitches, thought John. Babies in their bellies, but no fainting princesses or shrinking violets here. After all they must have seen and been through throughout their horrid ordeal, snatched from whatever life and loved ones they had before and enslaved into this ghastly and unconscionable breeding and sexual comfort program, no wonder they thirsted for blood. Determined to not just survive, these women were warriors girding for war. John was happy for the help. They would need it.
John sighed in resignation, winced in pain, and turned with a grimace to yet another silent stranger, who could only communicate in signs, that he was being forced to have faith in; in hopes he could lead him to salvation. “Is there any other way?”
Golem smiled and mouthed “Always” as he made a cryptic down and up gesture with his free hand, then busied himself gingerly helping those of his charges who were late in their trimesters to their feet in preparation for departure.
“Okay, ladies. Let’s get ready to move. My chatty friend here has the lead.” John cringed as he slung his MP5 over his shoulder so he could fire from the hip if needed, and used his free hand to assist more of the ladies to their feet. “God help us all,” he muttered with a pained chuckle.
―
“Sir! The house team just went down!” In an effort to redeem himself and try to save his skin the technician was extra attentive and assertive, trying to get noticed. Boudreaux was having none of it. Continuing to ignore the doomed man he pointed to the lower left corner of the huge screen.
“Robert, have someone pull up the playback from the mansion security cameras.”
“Certainly, sir.” Robert nodded to a nearby tech. “You have the mosaic of all feeds in that space now to choose as you wish.”
Boudreaux scowled in disgust as he watched the grainy recording of two unidentifiable forms enter the residence and the gunfight start. “Jesus Christ. That old bastard spent millions on that pastoral playground over the years and never bothered to upgrade the cameras! I guess the sacrilege of that gauche, Hefner-esque grotto in the Jesus tomb was deemed a more important expenditure.” He went from gruff to giggle with his regular, mercurial instability, “Although I can appreciate the ban on cameras in those illicit environs.”
“William, redirect the capture team to secure the assets and see to the intruders, won’t you? The tiger isn’t going anywhere for now.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Much obliged.”
―
With no pinch point to control the advance of the enemy, this time they truly did circle the wagons. It was all the better because the forward armor was all shot to hell anyhow. The vans were broadside to three directions. They had backed up to the berm of the former pastor’s replica of The Garden Tomb, complete with roll-away stone, to guard their back. Custom shields dropped down to cover the tires, and the monks inside the cargo area punched out the pre-cut firing ports. Back in business.
Now that they were reset and engaging early arrivals, Master Fu took a moment to again take stock of his forces. They hadn’t lost any more mo
nks, but ammo for all weapons was running low, especially the minis.
The choppers, still harrying stragglers trying to make it through the hole in the wall and taking shots into the compound as best they could from their standoff point, were effectively out of the game due to the annoyance of the swarming drones.
John was on his way with the precious cargo with assistance from an unknown variable. Could be worse, he supposed. Master Fu decided to give a little pep talk to the brothers and lighten the mood before the fighting began again in earnest. He roared over the singing whine of the miniguns, “Alright you dumb fucks! To hell with this merciful New Testament ‘love your enemies’ shit, it’s time to bring the Old Testament wrath! Eye for an eye! Tooth for a tooth! They took one of ours, we take all of theirs! Let them hear the Voice of God!”
It seemed a wasteful extravagance considering the state of their dwindling munitions, but the minigun monks let off a long, synchronized burst in a modern rendition of an ancient harmony of hate, and bellowed wordless war-cries in chorus with the tiger’s resounding roar.
It was a costly expenditure in ammo, but the flagging spirits of the battle-fatigued brothers were lifted, and, reinvigorated, they rose again each with a full heart to do battle, come what may.
Spotting a drone hovering close to capture the scene, Master Fu raised the VEPR to his shoulder, drew a bead, and unloaded the magazine of 12-gauge buckshot bringing down the unwelcome spectator. “Put that in your fucking movie, Boudreaux.”
―
Boudreaux shook his head in mild annoyance as another screen went dark. No matter, he still had hundreds of others roaming the grounds and locking down the airspace. He blinked and the black screen went bright again with a shot of the same location, this one recording from a less obtrusive altitude and proximity.
His technicians and drone pilots were on point. Whether out of professional zeal for a job well done, or fear of angering him, he did not care. All the feeds were being precisely curated to his exacting commands. They were tacitly buying in to the dream of his blockbuster, with all its ad-libbed and improvisational twists and turns.