Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  Panicked screaming sounded behind him and Simon turned and saw what looked like a large scrum that had formed at the exit to the venue. A bottleneck had formed at the small opening that was cordoned off by the razor wire and people were being forced into the wire. At the second barrier, people were climbing frantically over the bodies of others that had been electrocuted on the fence.

  There was movement to Simon’s left and two men came from another hole in the ground. They charged the podium with grenades in their hands. Simon dipped his head and put a protective arm across his eyes. He heard explosions, then saw the attackers lying on the ground. Two more men came out of the ground, further away than the first two and began firing automatic weapons as they ran toward the area where the limousines were parked. One of them dropped to a knee and lobbed a grenade, and there was another explosion near ‘The Beast’.

  Excited voices poured through Simon’s earpiece in such a jumble that he didn’t understand any of them. He heard the Boss’s name yelled in a garbled sentence but couldn’t hear the rest.

  How can all of these attackers be coming from underground? The rally had only been announced a week ago. It would be impossible to construct tunnels in that time period. How is this even possible?

  To Simon’s right, there was a loud, pitched scream. A man in uniform dropped his assault weapon and grabbed what was left of one of his arms. He fell to his knees just as a serrated knife, the size of a small machete, slashed across his neck. A girl with blonde dreadlocks stood over him for a moment and then moved on toward the stage, the machete held out in front of her and an assault rifle strapped to her back.

  The girl with the dreadlocks dropped to a half crouch and sidled forward, and flashed the machete across open space, catching a man in uniform across his chest as he ran past her. He fell to the ground, silent and unmoving. Two men in uniform turned weapons toward her as she charged them screaming. She plunged the machete into the stomach of one as the other squeezed off a short burst of fire. She fell to her knees wielding the machete in a long arc that caught the shooter at his waist. He fell to the ground and turned just as she plunged the knife into his heart.

  The girl grabbed her thigh as bright red blood gushed through her fingers. She struggled to her feet and limped on toward the podium, unslinging her assault rifle to use as a crutch, the machete still wielded in one hand. Near the stage, three armed guards turned in unison, their weapons swinging toward her.

  Something clicked in Simon. This girl was a soldier fighting for a cause. Within the greater battle, in a series of solitary acts, personal and singular and fearless. This lone individual was willing to give her life to take down someone he suddenly realized he detested.

  Christina’s words came to him. Maybe it’s time you picked a side.

  He sprung from his crouch, grabbed her around the waist and dragged her with him behind the tree, as a string of bullets cut up the bark on the tree.

  “I’ve got her. You go help the President.” Simon said, as he eased a hand with his badge from behind the tree and then slowly himself. The guards hesitated and then ran toward the podium.

  “I’ve got to get up there.” She struggled to get to her feet.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I don’t care.” She raised up again.

  Simon pushed her back to the ground. “You can barely walk.” He pulled the necktie he kept for emergencies from his pocket. “You need a tourniquet on that quick.”

  “Look, Mister, I appreciate it, but I got to get up there.”

  “Why?”

  “To kill the fucking President.”

  Simon put a hand on her shoulder and pushed down. “He’s probably already dead.”

  She went still. “You think?”

  “Yeah, I think. And I think you will be too if we don’t stop that bleeding.”

  “Why do you think he’s already dead?”

  “Well, one of those arrows of yours most likely did the trick.”

  The girl raised her upper body and rested on her elbows. “How do you know that?” She glanced at his earpiece. “Who are you?”

  Simon gave her a slight smile and wrapped the tie around her thigh. He pulled it tightly and then tied off the end. “How’s that feel?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Cori ran her hand over the knot and then looked up at Simon. “Whose side are you on, Mister?”

  “Ms. Archer,” Simon gazed in the direction of the podium and then back at her and took a deep breath, “I think I just joined yours.”

  ◆◆◆

  Connor emerged, hunched over, from a tunnel. He ran to an open area just across the field, and then dropped to one knee and pointed the NLAW at the limousine. As gunfire struck the ground around him, he waited for a clear shot.

  Simon straightened, his eyes wide, riveted on the weapon. “Is that a missile launcher?”

  Cori turned and lifted her head. “It’s a …” A whooshing sound came from the weapon and a projectile leaped from it, emerging with a smoky trail, adjusting momentarily in the air and then, target locked in, headed straight for ‘The Beast’. A man emerged from the limousine and froze, a strange, frightened look on his face, as the missile headed straight for him. “Get down!” Cori screamed.

  Simon dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms, while Cori clapped her hands over her face. The force of the explosion lifted them from the ground, and then pieces of debris began falling around them. In the aftermath of the ear-splitting explosion, an eerie silence engulfed them.

  “My God,” Simon muttered.

  “Holy shit.” Cori lifted her face from the crook of her elbow. In front of them, a wall of smoke billowed toward them in a white wave. She covered her eyes again as the white cloud engulfed them.

  ◆◆◆

  Beaux nearly tripped over a girl that lay unmoving on the ground. Around her, moans and screams blended with the staccato hum of the intermittent rat-a-tat-tat firing from assault weapons and small arms fire.

  She searched for Simon in the clouds of smoke left in the wake of the explosions. Crouching, she moved over, what was now a battlefield, staying close to the ground as gunfire sounded around her, snaking her way through the bodies that scattered the ground like discarded dolls.

  She came upon an overturned table and rose to her knees and peered over the edge. Through wisps of smoke, she saw Simon crouched next to a tree, a weapon in his hand. Next to him, a girl lay on the ground, bright patches of blood on her leg. Beaux leapt up and ran toward him but another explosion tore across the field, knocking her from her feet. She covered herself, her ears ringing, as a cloud of smoke rolled over her turning day to night.

  ◆◆◆

  The cloud came at the television camera and the screen in the restaurant showed only white. They had all recoiled at the sound of the violent explosion and now they were quiet, Bobby stared upward at the TV over the bridge of his glasses, as Mae Helen and Maddie both watched, hands covering open mouths. Christina turned from the window where she had been standing, and, mouth agape, said nothing.

  ◆◆◆

  Connor grimaced in pain and crawled in the direction he thought the tunnel might be. He put a hand to his stomach and it came back covered in dark, red blood. Through the smoke, he could barely see as he moved, feeling his way, and despite the loud ringing in his ears and the hole in his body, a slight smile crossed his face.

  It had been a direct hit.

  ◆◆◆

  Number Eight closed the hatch to the tunnel just as Connor raised the NLAW to his shoulder. He waited for the roar of the explosion to subside, then opened the hatch again and crawled out into the smoke.

  Around him, bodies littered the ground, and people staggered, seemingly stunned, moving unevenly amid the chaos and confusion. He took the AR-15 from his shoulder, cocked it and turned to his left, then squeezed the trigger and fired, slowly rotating the weapon in a wide semi-circle. When the clip was empty, he pulled another magazine from his belt, jam
med it into place and fired again, this time from right to left.

  Next to him, Connor struggled to get to his feet but fell back on one knee. “You’re killing innocent civilians!”

  Number Eight laughed, shoved Connor to the ground with the butt of his weapon, then leveled the barrel at Connor’s face. “I’m killing Fascists.”

  Connor fell back, one hand supporting himself and the other pointed at Number Eight. “Put that gun down.”

  “I’m tired of taking orders from you, cocksucker.”

  “Nooo,” Cori screamed, her weapon drawn, as she raised up suddenly and limped toward them.

  Number Eight turned, his mouth contorted in an angry sneer and brought the weapon to his shoulder. “You bitch,” he said. He fired an extended burst and Cori fell to the ground. Number Eight walked over to her, knelt and rolled her body over and pried the Zombie Knife from her clutched hand. He held it up, examining it in a moment of admiration before he thrust it inside his belt.

  He rose slowly and looked in the direction in which Cori had come. A Sig Sauer P-365, held in both hands by a man who was crouched next to a tree, was pointed at him. Number Eight hesitated for a moment and then took a quick step toward the entrance to the cavern. The man fired two shots, one after the other, and Number Eight cried out and fell to the ground. He put a hand to his hip and rolled over and into the hole, pulling the hatch down after him.

  ◆◆◆

  Simon moved, hunched over, to where the girl with the dreadlocks lay and knelt beside her. He pressed two fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse. The man who had fired the missile watched him intently, and Simon turned to him and reluctantly shook his head.

  He stood and went to the tunnel the attacker had gone into and tugged on the hatch, but it wouldn’t open. He looked back at the man on the ground.

  “It’s locked from inside,” the man said. His arm shook as he pointed in the direction of the stage. “That one over there.” He lay back on the ground, his arm still extended.

  Behind the stage, an open hatch revealed the hole in the ground that two of the attackers had come from. Simon ran toward the opening, stooped over and stepped onto the first rung of the ladder.

  He stopped and surveyed the scene in front of him. Smoke hung over the field amid the sporadic hum of small arms fire and the putrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. An explosion sounded in the distance and the rotors of the Apaches thumped rhythmically as they flew over the field. He lowered his head reflexively as an F-15 roared low, helpless against an enemy that had emerged from underground into the midst of the rally, its contrails merging into the smoke rising from the residue of the pitched battle below. People lay on the ground crying for help, anguish in their voices. Bloodied bodies dotted the stage. Part of the limousine was to his left but Simon didn’t see the other part. The sound of sirens came from all directions, no longer an ebb and flow, as they melded into one continuous wail. Medics and first responders tended injuries on the stage. Security forces had begun to organize and were moving in an uneven line across the field. Occasionally a guard fired a gun at someone on the ground, then moved on. Near the other hatch, the man who’d fired the missile launcher stared back at him. Simon nodded and then disappeared down into the hole.

  ◆◆◆

  Beaux raised her head and peered through the haze to where Simon had been, but the smoke was too thick. She got to her feet and continued on, moving stealthily, close to the ground, the easier to see. She stepped around bodies, carefully picking her way.

  It was quieter than before as if the blasts had swept away the clatter and noise. Through the smoke, she saw Simon, crouched, firing his weapon. She yelled but there was no reaction from him. She stood and began moving toward him, crouching at intervals. The gunfire intensified and she went to the ground and nestled her head in the crook of her elbow.

  The firing stopped and she raised her head. Uncle Simon was kneeling over a girl lying prostrate on the ground. He then rose and ran toward an opening in the ground, eased himself down into it and disappeared from sight.

  Beaux grabbed her backpack, pushed up from the ground, and sprinted toward where she had last seen Simon. At the spot where Simon had been, a man lay on the ground, a black mask with the number one painted on the forehead covering his face. One hand caked in thick, red blood, covered a wound on his stomach. She bent down and looked into eyes that were rimmed in a copper color. “You okay?”

  He nodded but didn’t answer.

  Beaux said a short prayer and then hurried to the hole in the ground in which Simon had disappeared. She took a deep breath, stepped down on the first rung, and closed the hatch behind her.

  Darkness enveloped her. She activated the flashlight on her iPhone and descended.

  ◆◆◆

  The man in the white hoodie stood on the edge of the field and watched the girl follow Simon down into the ground. He knelt and took a pistol from a wounded security officer, ignoring his plea for help.

  Another security man confronted him and he raised the pistol and fired in one smooth motion, killing him before the officer had a chance to respond.

  He turned away from the dead security man and went to the man with the mask who lay on the ground. He rested a boot on the man’s chest, just above the bloody hole in his stomach, and pressed down, lowering the pistol to the man’s forehead. “What’s down there?” he asked, motioning with his head toward the opening into the ground.

  The man’s copper eyes showed a surprising lack of fear. “Who are you?”

  He ignored the question and cocked the pistol. “What’s down there?”

  The man didn’t answer. The man in the white hoodie shoved his boot down harder on the man’s chest, and his breathing became labored.

  “It’s a,” the man struggled to speak. “It’s…”

  He leaned closer so as to hear. “Tell me, goddammit.”

  “It’s a, a,” the man swallowed fitfully. He took a deep breath. “Cavern. There’s a cavern down there.”

  The man in the hoodie straightened. “A cavern? How big?”

  “Big.”

  The man in the hoodie nodded and a hint of a smile crossed his lips. He extended his weapon, held it in place for a moment and then fired.

  He stuffed the gun in his waistband and strode toward the hatch the girl had gone through. He pulled at a handle, brought the hatch back and climbed down onto the ladder, locking the latch tightly behind him.

  It was time to settle things with an old friend.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Cavern

  Simon eased into the cavern, moving in the shadows, sticking close to the crevices and rough exterior of one of the walls. He gripped his weapon in both hands as he moved stealthily, his gun rotating around the room.

  “What the fuck?” he said in a barely audible voice. A bank of computer monitors covered one wall and maps of the university were attached to the other. A tarpaulin lay over an uneven pile on the floor with only the barrel of an assault rifle peeking from underneath one edge. A large wooden table sat in the middle of the room with more maps strewn across it. The ceiling of the cavern was close to twelve feet high and the space itself was large enough to house a tank. Cots lined another wall, their bedding stripped. Probably to erase any traces of DNA, Simon thought. The hum of an electrical generator whirred from somewhere on the periphery. In the opposite corner, a set of stairs looked to be the place of exit and entry.

  He hesitated, dipped his head and spoke into the microphone attached to the inside of his shirt but stopped after a moment in frustration. With the unintelligible garble of voices talking over each other, no one would hear him.

  A slight tap sounded to Simon’s left and he crouched and pointed his weapon in that direction. He moved, his back against the wall, toward the source of the noise. A wooden door, jammed awkwardly into the stone walls, stood half-opened. He pulled the edge of the door back and peered into darkness. He stood to the side of the door, his gun poin
ted into darkness and waited, but there was only silence.

  He brought his iPhone from his pocket and pointed its flashlight into the darkness with one hand while the other pointed the gun, peering carefully around the door frame as he did. On the floor a fan sat crookedly, its blades whirring at full speed. He breathed out slowly in relief. The guy had probably taken off up the stairs and out the exit. He swept his flashlight around the rest of the room, then stepped inside.

  A yellow flash lit the room, followed by the sharp pop of a bullet exiting its chamber. Simon felt a blow to his shoulder and a sudden burning pain. He staggered back and fell to the ground. He reached for his Sig Sauer, which he’d dropped when he fell, but a heavy boot came down hard on his wrist

  Simon felt the barrel of a gun against the side of his head. “Move motherfucker and you’re dead.”

  Simon lay back against the floor. Hot, sticky blood ran from his shoulder. “Thought I left the cavern, didn’t you?” The man pressed the gun harder against Simon’s head, his voice so close that Simon could smell stale tobacco.

  The man stepped back and crossed the room where Simon’s gun lay and kicked it into the corner. “Get over there.” The man motioned to the table in the center of the room with his gun.

  Simon pushed himself awkwardly to his knees. “Who are you?”

  The man let out a harsh, loud laugh, his head rolling back and his belly quivering like jelly. He stopped abruptly. “I’m Number Eight,” he said with a sneer, then roared with laughter again. He quieted again and glared at Simon. “I said get over there.”

  “Where?”

  “Over against that table.”

  Simon looked at him in a questioning manner. “What?”

  “Put your back against the leg of the table over there.” Simon sat, unsure as to what to do. “Go.” Number Eight yelled, his voice filling the room.