Purge of Babylon (Short Story): Mason's War

by Sam Sisavath

  “What’d she say?” Lyle asked from the back of the Ford F-150 when they stepped outside into the parking lot. He was leaning casually against the mounted SAW as if it were an innocent prop and not the deadly weapon it had proven to be this morning.

  “She’s scheduling a ceremony to give us medals tonight,” Mason said. “You got a tux you can wear to the party?”

  “For real?”

  “No, not for real.”

  “Oh.”

  Mason grinned at the disappointed look on Lyle’s face.

  “Fuck Jocelyn,” Rummy said, and climbed into the driver seat and slammed the door.

  Mason slid into the front passenger seat. “Back on patrol?”

  Rummy snorted. “Which part of ‘Fuck Jocelyn’ didn’t you understand?”

  TWO

  IT WAS the same message on repeat:

  “This is The Tide to every unit still in the field. Effective immediately, you are to stand down and cease all operations. If you’re already on your way home, continue doing so. I repeat: If you’re in the middle of operations, you are to abandon them and fall back and await further instructions.”

  Rummy turned the radio off. “Guess it’s on a loop.”

  “The fuck is The Tide?” Lyle said from the front of the Ford. He sat on the hood with legs tapping against the grill, swirling the remains of his beer around. Every now and then he would lie down only to sit right back up, because, obviously, the hood of a truck wasn’t designed for maximum comfort.

  “Their base of operations, probably,” Mason said. “I met these guys outside of Larkin. They’re organized.”

  “What about the main guy? Mercer?” Rummy asked. He walked to and sat under the shade of a large cedar elm tree in front of Mason, who leaned against the closed front passenger side door. Rummy tucked his own beer bottle between bent knees and let out a satisfied sigh. “You saw him there, too?”

  “Yeah,” Mason nodded.

  He took a sip from his own bottle. The beer was a strange combination of almost cold, thanks to the chilly weather, but not quite, resulting in a taste that wasn’t entirely foul. Of course, the beers themselves were long expired, but Mason had drank “bad” beer before.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” the voice said.

  Would you shut up for once? I’m trying to enjoy some peace and quiet here.

  “You can do that when you’re dead.”

  That’s not going to be for a long time yet.

  “Keep telling yourself that. The way things are going for us in recent months…”

  Mason tuned out the voice as Rummy said, “What’s he like?”

  “Big guy,” Mason said. “Fifties. Tough-looking motherfucker.”

  “He’s ex-military? That’s what everyone says. Has to be, to run something like this against us. Only an ex-grunt would have that kind of balls.”

  “Looked like it.”

  “You don’t know for sure?”

  “We didn’t exactly have a long chat. Met him briefly, but then they threw us into this hangar and a couple of guys would come by to ask questions every few hours. There was this really hot chick. She was like Mercer’s second-in-command or something. I wonder what happened to her…”

  “Plenty of hot chicks in town,” Lyle said from the front.

  “Not like this one.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s the enemy,” Rummy said. “You see her again, I suggest shooting her instead of trying to fuck her.”

  Mason chuckled. “You don’t think I already know that, old man?”

  “You’re new. I don’t know what you know, you know?”

  “I don’t know,” Lyle said.

  Rummy chortled, while Mason took another sip from his almost-cold beer. If he ignored the aftertaste, it was almost-good. “Where’d you get these, anyway?”

  “Plenty of them just lying around,” Rummy said. “Plenty of lots of things just lying around, if you take the time to look for them. Before this whole Mercer war thing popped up, that was all we had on our hands—time.”

  “It was boring as hell,” Lyle said.

  “What about now? Still boring?” Mason asked.

  “Nope, but at least I finally got to shoot someone,” Lyle said, and laughed.

  The laughter surprised Mason.

  “It takes all kinds,” the voice said.

  I guess so…

  “Jim is saying he might be able to brew fresh beer soon,” Rummy said. “That would be nice. A man can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Fresh beer would definitely be nice,” Mason said, and drained his before tossing the empty longneck into a nearby bush.

  They were far from town, about half a mile from the main road they were supposed to be patrolling at this very moment, in a field surrounded by absolutely nothing but sunburnt grass that only moved when the occasional breeze washed over them. The only sounds were their voices and the crickets hiding in the area, and if Mason didn’t know any better, he could almost believe they were just three buddies lounging around on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

  But they weren’t, and would probably never be. Besides, Mason had no use for “buddies.” People tended to get dead real fast out here, even before Mercer launched his attacks. A post-Purge world wasn’t a place for making friends because you never knew when you’d have to send them to their deaths because they wanted something—or often, someone.

  “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” the voice said. “Not from all the way down here, anyway.”

  There’s always a way back to the top. I just have to find it. One step at a time. That’s all it takes. One step at a time…

  “One step at a time,” the voice repeated. “Now we’re talking. I was starting to think you were getting too comfortable with our current status.”

  Not in a million years.

  “Good to hear. Good to hear…”

  Mason glanced up at the skies.

  No black dots, and no signs of planes getting ready to strafe him.

  All clear. All clear is good.

  If Mason never heard that god-awful sound of the Warthogs firing their cannons ever again, he could die a happy man. Hopefully that time would come when he was also an old man, though you never knew these days.

  “You look like a man who’s seen them in action,” Rummy was saying. When Mason glanced over, he saw that the redneck was watching him almost curiously and probably had for some time while Mason was…what was he doing? Daydreaming?

  “Dayfearing is more like it,” the voice chuckled.

  “Seen what?” Mason said, even though he already knew the answer.

  “The Warthogs,” Rummy said. “The A-10 Thunderbolts that’ve been causing havoc across the state. Isn’t that why you keep checking the skies?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen them.”

  “Up close?”

  “Up close enough to never want to see them again in this lifetime.”

  “What about the tanks?” Lyle asked.

  “Haven’t run across those yet, thank God.”

  “How many of them they got?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “I thought you were plugged in, back when you were doing Jocelyn’s job,” Rummy said. “Not true?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘plugged in,’” Mason said.

  “You know what I mean,” the older man said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Mason. “Those things…” He tapped his temple. “…in your head. That’s how they communicate, isn’t it? Not like they can come out in the daytime or call you on the phone. So they give orders in other ways.” He tapped his temple again. “Right?”

  Mason nodded. “Something like that.”

  Lyle had turned around to listen in on the conversation, but kept quiet. Mason couldn’t tell if he was really interested or a little afraid of what he was hearing. Maybe a little of both.

  “Must be weird,” Rummy said.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Mason said.

&nbs
p; “What’s another way?”

  “Creepy. Freaky. WTF.” He shrugged. “But you get used to it.”

  “How’s that?”

  Mason shook his head. “Can’t explain it to someone who hasn’t experienced it. But you just do.”

  “Does it still talk to you?” Rummy asked. “Even now, after you’re down here with the rest of us peons?”

  No, but now there’s another voice, and it’s even more annoying.

  “Hey, I resent that,” the voice said.

  “What?” Rummy said.

  “What?” Mason repeated.

  “You have that look, like you’re somewhere else.” He gave Mason an almost-amused grin. “Like there’s something going on in that head of yours—”

  Rummy hadn’t finished yours when the crack! of a rifle shattered the air.

  Mason was turning around because the shot had come from behind him when he glimpsed Lyle toppling sideways, his head landing with a thunk! against the truck’s hood before his body rolled forward and disappeared out of Mason’s line of vision.

  “Sniper!” Mason shouted as he ducked behind the passenger side door just as a second crack! rang out and the window behind him disintegrated and glass rained down and around his head. “Fuck shit!”

  Mason was dropping into his crouch when Rummy decided to do the opposite and stood up in front of him, and Mason thought, Stay down, you idiot!

  But he didn’t get the chance to put those thoughts into actual words when a third shot—crack!—sounded and he actually heard the bullet zip! over his head, having flown through the two now-windowless doors, and hit Rummy.

  The older man was almost fully on his feet when he stumbled against the tree, before sliding back down to the ground on his ass. His arms hung oddly at his sides as blood pumped out of a gaping hole in his chest, right where his heart would be. The older man’s eyes stared forward at Mason, lips quivering as if he wanted to say something—maybe ask for help?—but couldn’t get anything out.

  Should have stayed down, you idiot!

  Mason watched Rummy bleed out while simultaneously trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

  The answers came in short spurts:

  Sniper!

  In the fields!

  Shit!

  And here he was outside the truck with only the Sig Sauer in his hip holster, while his rifle was on the seat on the other side of the closed door. How long would it take to stand up, turn, and reach in through the broken window for it? Two seconds? Three?

  Oh, who was he kidding? Mason had never been particularly fast, and it would probably take a good five seconds—

  Ping! as a bullet drilled through the door behind him and exited exactly two inches from the right side of his head.

  “Fuck!” Mason whispered as he scrambled away from the door on his hands and knees, too terrified to stand up or even rise slightly into a crouch in order to move faster.

  “Slow and steady wins the race!” the voice shouted inside his head.

  Shut up! This isn’t the time!

  That last bullet had actually punched its way through the door. No, that wasn’t true. It had punched its way through two doors. What the hell kind of bullet could do that?

  He fast-crawled around the large pool of blood that had drained from Rummy, who was sitting lifelessly against the tree with his head lolled to one side. The old redneck looked like he was just napping, but of course Mason knew better. He passed Rummy by, then quickly circled the tree and only then did he jump up to his feet and draw the semiautomatic from its holster.

  His breath hammered out of him, making it difficult to focus in on his surroundings for signs that the shooter (Please, God, let it be just one, I beg you, let it be just one asshole out there!) was moving to finish the job. Instead, all he could hear was the breeze sweeping across the open sun-drenched fields and the sound of his own runaway heartbeat. He attempted to slow his breathing down, but he might as well be trying to stop a flood with his fingers.

  “You’re in a tough pickle now, chum,” the voice said.

  Tell me something I don’t already know.

  “You’re also talking to yourself.”

  Mason sighed, and thought, I already knew that, too.

  The voice laughed, while Mason entertained the (so stupid) idea of leaning around the tree to get a look at the shooter, but then he remembered the guy had shot Rummy through two windows, then tried to take his head off through two doors, and decided against it. The trunk of the elm tree was just large enough to hide his entire frame behind, and it should be thick enough to keep back a bullet.

  God, let it be thick enough to keep back a bullet.

  As if in reply, another crack! tore through the afternoon air followed shortly by a (seemingly) thunderous thwack! as the bullet drilled into the other side of the tree. Mason’s entire body shuddered, but when he looked down and didn’t see a hole in his chest or blood pouring out, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Thank you, Jesus!

  He almost laughed out loud. Mason had never been a particularly religious man, but what was that saying about foxholes and atheists? Maybe he should give serious thought to converting.

  He might have actually chuckled that time, but his chest was still beating too hard and too loudly in his ears for him to properly hear anything going on outside his body at the moment. He did, somehow, manage to calm down just enough to take stock of his situation.

  “The situation? Up a creek without a paddle,” the voice said.

  Shut up; I’m thinking.

  “Be careful: Road work up ahead.”

  You’re really not helping.

  “Not true. Who else would talk to you, if not me? You’re not exactly the most popular person out here right now.”

  He squinted his eyes shut and slowed down his heartbeat even further, and concentrated.

  There was at least one sniper out there, possibly more. Though as far as Mason could deduce, the shots had all come from the same weapon and from the same direction—behind him, somewhere between the truck and the road. If there were two shooters, they would have attempted to outflank him by now, knowing there was just him left.

  He snapped a look left, then right, just to be sure no one was creeping up on him. Nothing. Just grass and more grass. Thank God it was nothing but flat country for miles out here, which meant if you wanted to hide you had to get low. Real low. The only decent spot to hide while standing was the wall of trees in front of him almost one hundred (more?) yards away.

  So how had the sniper sneaked up on them? The guy had to have been crawling in their direction for a while without being spotted. Especially by Lyle, who had been sitting on the hood since they parked and broke out the beer.

  Stealthy motherfucker.

  There was a very good possibility he was only dealing with one shooter. Maybe even a member of that Mercer crew Lyle had shot to ribbons earlier this morning. Didn’t these guys work in three-men teams? Now the survivor was looking for some payback and here they were, barely a mile from the same spot where his friends had been killed.

  It made sense. Or as much as anything could make sense to his frayed mind at the moment. For all he knew, all of this could be bullshit. He was, after all, talking to himself.

  “Hey now, let’s not get personal,” the voice said.

  Didn’t I tell you to shut up? I’m trying to think here.

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  Fuck off.

  So where was he—

  Crack!

  Another chunk of bark splintered into the air behind him, but otherwise the tree remained intact, along with Mason leaning against it. What was the guy trying to do now? Shoot the tree in half? It didn’t matter what kind of armor-piercing rounds he had in that rifle; it was going to take something bigger to accomplish that.

  Say, like the SAW mounted on the F-150…

  Mason sneaked a quick peek behind the tree at the machine gun. The truck was parked nearby and it w
ouldn’t have taken much to reach it, climb into the back, and open up on whoever was out there.

  The voice laughed. “You almost convinced yourself that time!”

  He sighed. He hated to admit it, but the voice was right. Besides the fact that he would probably be shot while trying to climb up the truck bed, even if he could get up there without springing a leak (“Or two, or a dozen,” the voice chuckled), he didn’t know the shooter’s location, and there was only so much ground even that almost-full ammo can attached under the SAW could cover.

  No, he was safer hiding behind the tree. The thought didn’t exactly fill him with pride, but Mason had given that up a long time ago. There was no place for such things when it came to survival, and Mason was a survivor. He’d always been.

  And right now, the best way to survive was to stay put.

  Which was what he did. Too bad he hadn’t thought to grab the two-way radio inside the truck before fleeing. He could have called for reinforcements. Get Jocelyn out here with more patrols. He could have also grabbed his rifle while he was at it.

  “Shoulda, coulda, but didn’t, sucker,” the voice said.

  You’re not helping.

  “I’m helping with the comedy.”

  It’s not funny.

  “Depends on which side of the tree you’re standing on.”

  Mason imagined a drum rimshot accompanying that last line.

  Jesus, I really am going crazy.

  “You’re just figuring that out now?” the voice asked, before laughing.

  Mason sighed and stood perfectly still.

  After the last gunshot, the sniper hadn’t fired again. Mason wanted to think the guy had given up and was retreating, but he didn’t think he was that lucky. If the last few weeks were any indication, he was definitely not that lucky.

  The problem was that time was on the shooter’s side. Without the radio to call for help, he had no idea if anyone had heard the shots. The chances weren’t good because the townspeople were stretched thin. That was one of the reasons why Jocelyn had accepted him without question—she needed as many warm bodies as she could get her hands on. And according to Rummy, T10’s patrols had gotten longer and farther out from town as Mercer’s men expanded their attacks.