“Prince?”
The young woman wrung her hands but was quiet, and Asimov looked at her, bewildered. “Why are you so suspicious of me? I’ve saved your life twice today, but you still act like I’m going to hurt you at any moment.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Asimov cut her off. “Don’t offend me that way. If we are going to the same place, I need to know if you’re on my side.”
“And which side would that be, huh?” The answer came quickly and sour, hostile. “Thomas may be too young to understand,” the boy opened his mouth to protest, but Olivia didn’t give space, “but I know what you really are. You and your friends… You aren’t cops. No, you’re the fucking killers. You weren’t trustworthy before, why would be now?”
“You and your friends”, Asimov thought, and then things started to make sense. “You” wasn’t him-the-man, but him-the-cop. She didn’t like MPs.
“I understand…”
“Do you?” Olivia almost screamed now. “You and that black uniform with the skull — I know what it really means. You’re far from home, right? Far away from the favelas, where you came in shooting and killing everyone you saw, criminal or innocent, woman and child.” Olivia spat the words, her face dark, “You fascists came into my sister’s house and shot her and my nephew. That’s when I decided to leave, to try a better life on São Paulo, and now... Now I have you…”
Olivia’s eyes seemed to jump out of her face, filled with anger. Asimov didn’t say anything, just looking through the rearview mirror to her upset face. Asimov did understand, but if she expected him to say something in his defense, she’d be disappointed. Not that Asimov knew her sister, or remembered having killed any civilians in the past — but he knew, however, that the files of Rio de Janeiro tell a long story of the fight against the Military Police and the organized crime. In the middle of the crossfire, the MPs had always been in the midst of polemics involving the death of innocents and corruption, a misfortune from which all places of the world suffered too, but one that in Brazil was transformed into attraction by the news reports.
His attention returned to the road ahead, squeezing the steering wheel and concentrating on driving. “I don’t know you, Olivia, and I won’t lie by saying I understand your pain. Honestly, I already have too many problems in my head, and I’m not in the mood to be the target of old wounds. Yes, I was a military police officer, but now there is no longer MP, no BOPE, no ‘oppressed innocents’ or ‘fascists’, or whatever you want to call me; now it all comes down to ‘us’ and ‘them’, humans and monsters. I saved you, Olivia, and I won’t hurt you. All I want to know is if I can count on your help. At the very least, I am worthy of a little more of your respect.”
In the backseat, Olivia listened with her mouth open, feeling completely unarmed. Suddenly all the anger and reluctance she was holding near her chest seemed not worth mentioning. Her traumas had no place in a world where monsters didn’t live just under her bed — she didn’t have to like Asimov, but she must at least be friendlier to him.
“Okay,” she said, “that’s our deal.”
Asimov nodded.
And then he felt as if his body had been struck by a lightning bolt.
That’s our deal, the words echoed in his mind, making connections. A memory emerged — a series of images, trying to draw together in a meaningful sequence, a scene that struck him like a quick and sudden punch.
“That’s our deal,” the man said on his back, taking the mag out of the rifle and counting the bullets. “If you don’t like it, then open the door and jump off now. We will get everyone, and that includes the colonel’s family.”
The man patted Asimov’s shoulder as he shifted the gear and stepped on the accelerator, the Pacificador — literally “Peacemaker”, a armored vehicle, manufactured to stand firm against high-powered weapons and explosives, and commonly used by the corporation to march into the favelas — jumping forward through the chaotic streets of the city of Rio de Janeiro.
It was madness, pure madness. There was no way to stop the monsters, and the civilian exodus was far from being organized. People were killing and being killed throughout the city, many streets were blocked by broken or abandoned cars and there were hundreds of statements about cops firing randomly on civilians who stood in their way.
The Army never arrived, and now the Military Police itself was leaving the field.
Asimov leaned forward in the driver’s seat, struggling to lead his convoy of four Pacificadores — right now, the only thing that kept them alive while trying to cross the city. The interior of the truck was a noisy cacophony of men firing through the openings on the sides of the vehicle. A swarm of Shades was coming after them, running as if they were participants in some voracious marathon.
“No disrespect, but we have to get out of here now,” said a guy sitting next to Asimov. “Captain, you know we will never be able to reach Leblon.”
“This isn’t a fucking democracy,” the first man shouted. “Either you follow the orders or jump out of the truck!”
“Those orders suck!”
The captain grabbed the man by the hair and slapped him in the face. They both wore the black BOPE uniform, and they both are dirty and exhausted from the last 12 hours. They were hard men, who had trained to withstand pressure and stress — but some of them were on the verge of losing their minds.
“Get it together! Go back there and shoot something!” The captain grabbed the other man by the shoulders and almost tossed him to the back of the truck. Then he sat on the empty seat and looked at Asimov. His voice softened as he said, “Colonel, I don’t know. Maybe they’re dead.”
“They’re not dead.” Asimov gripped the wheel tightly. The street ahead was blocked by abandoned cars; he turned the steering wheel and the brawny vehicle jumped onto the sidewalk. He almost runs over a bunch of unfortunates who were trying to get away on foot, the civilians spreading in all directions like a bunch of frightened chickens. A woman wasn’t so lucky and the Pacificador drove over her in an instant — Asimov could only close his eyes, knowing there was nothing he could do for her or anyone else.
On his side, the captain opened his mouth to protest. He shrieked a sharp and feminine scream, alongside the yell of a child.
The screams didn’t come from the man, however, but from a different time period of which Asimov was also a participant. Suddenly he was swallowed up from the past and hurled back into the present.
“Turn away, TURN AWAY!” Olivia shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to get over him and reach for the steering wheel.
The road had changed in front of him — he was no longer in a Pacificador in the middle of Rio, he was driving a beaten car on a rainy day, en route for Ilha Bela.
And there was something in the road.
Holly shit!
He stepped on the brakes, but he knew it was too late.
It was all very fast, actually — the tires screaming, the car sliding on the wet track, the unmistakable crushing’s sound of kneading metal and shattering windows — but Asimov still found time to think: I was a colonel.
But then he ran out of time and his vision darkened.
ADAPT AND OVERCOME
“You sure I am not going to drown if I fall on the water?”
“Why would you fall in the water, in the first place?”
They were all wrapped in the Enhanced Agility Operations Combat System, a military-grade exoskeleton, used especially by the special operations forces, or SOF. It was an elegant-looking piece of equipment that makes the user stronger and faster than other men. To effortless eyes, it was all pipes and steel, a mechanized joint so thin and small that it could be used under a coat and no one would notice.
With the EAOCS, a man could lift two hundred fifty pounds, jump three meters straight up and ran twenty miles an hour, and also enhances the reaction speed of a normal human, all of that using an integrated power cell the size of an apple.
&nb
sp; It has, however, some cons. To start, unlike the battlesuits that the Heavy Mechanized Infantry was using nowadays, the EAOCS didn’t offer any armor plates or weapons. It was just an exoskeleton, all for stealth, speed and agility, not to protect your groin, chest, and head — or to give you the firepower necessary to put down a city block.
If you want to shot or to protect yourself, the smart thing to do was to take a rifle and a bulletproof vest. It had been years since Desmond had a gun on hands — and he had never been so tooled up with weapons and ammo on all his life. The EAOCS was taking the heavyweight from his back, but Desmond was pretty sure that he was close to the two hundred pounds now and, if he falls from the boat, he didn’t doubt he’d sink like a stone.
Of course, that wasn’t the only thing disquieting him.
“Tell me again, why we aren’t wearing biohazard suits?”
It was the thousandth time Desmond that asked that question. Hendrix spat in the water. “Believe me, when the Shades are upon you that suit makes no difference,” he said, his voice making it clear he was losing his temper. “A virus is the last thing that goes through your head when you’re being gutted alive. Now shut up, put your gas mask back and watch your sector.”
Desmond went silent — for the time being — and with that, Hendrix put his own gas mask in place as the team crossed the choppy waters in the agile boat. Specialists said that they couldn’t get the virus by air anymore, but better safe than sorry.
Hendrix was piloting the boat, while Devereaux and Knight continued to paddle and the others kept with their weapons at ready. It was close to nine o’clock, but, due to bad weather, it seemed to be already night. Being a man who had his share of missions executed during a storm, it was easy for Hendrix to put this one in his top five. If he was a religious man, he’d take that rain as a bad sign — definitely, the Federative Republic of Brazil didn’t welcome them with open arms.
Hendrix surveyed the city of São Sebastião as the boat approached the beach, without seeing Shades ahead. That didn’t mean they were safe — the Shades were evolving, adapting, and there were several reports saying that some of them were developing gills. The idea that at any time a Shade could jump out of the water like a great white shark was far from welcoming, and his senses were on full alert.
His five-man squad was doing the same. Adding to the fact that they all are Tier-One special operators using exosuits, they were armed to the teeth. They all wore guns with suppressors, had night-vision goggles on their helmets, and their bulletproof vests were crammed with grenades and extra ammunition enough to overthrow a small nation.
Hendrix himself had a heavily customized HK700 assault rifle, a PDW submachine gun in a drop-leg holster and a .45 pistol in front of the vest. He was also carrying a machete in the back, in case things got a bit... personal.
Some could say it was overkill to carry so many weapons when you only had two hands, but, when fighting Shades, records demonstrated there were never enough guns.
Very well, let’s see what the future holds for me, he thought. Not that he was very worried about the future, anyway — just a few days ago he contemplated the idea of eating a bullet. The letter he wrote — because every professional suicide must write a letter — was still in his pocket, and the hard truth is: if they hadn’t knocked on his door saying they had a mission for him, Hendrix would have moved on with the ritual.
Maybe later, who knows...? He truly didn’t believe at all in that mission. At the very least it would be a waste of time. Most likely, would be their death, and that’s why Hendrix accepted the job — dying fighting seemed better than the alternative.
“Sickbay Zero to Immunity One, how copy?”
It was Captain Kiersey. Hendrix keyed his radio, “This is Immunity One Actual. Send it.”
“We have the drone flying above the city. No activity in the streets; the place seems desert.”
“That’s good.”
“For now, it is. Have you looked south?”
“The storm?”
“Positive. Looks like is some sort of climatic event mumbo jumbo, the sort of thing that happens only once in a lifetime.”
“And it decided to happen today…”
“That’s affirmative. We won’t be able to keep the drone in the air once it reaches the city. Communications are going to be influenced too.”
“Understood. No eyes in the sky or free Wi-Fi to us.”
“We are going to send the drone back as soon as possible. Until there, you are officially on your own.”
“We can handle ourselves.”
“You better be. Obama out.”
Everyone in the boat heard it. Hendrix’s expression stayed neutral, but he and all of his men were thinking the same damn thing: Brazil is greeting us with a big “Fuck you!” even before we put the boots on the ground.
“Keep the discipline on the radio,” Hendrix told the others. “We need to use secrecy if we are to survive this journey.”
Heads nodded in silence. Not that Hendrix needed to remind his men of this — he was talking mainly with Desmond. The guy was visibly nervous, spending more time checking his rifle than watching the water. He wore the same body armor like the others, but a less elaborate tactical vest, with, an M17 pistol on the holster and an M7A1 bullpup assault rifle in hands, because it was what he was qualified for.
Poor amateur, Hendrix thought, while he wasn’t truly surprised. Since he had joined the Special Activities Division, Hendrix got used to playing babysitter here and there for the Agency. And he was good at security work — hell, he and his boys had worked in the most distant and dangerous stations for five straight years, all in the name of Uncle Sam’s Empire.
And Hendrix knew his team very well — some of them even before joining the Special Activities. They had been through bad times, but they adapted and surpassed everything the world had thrown at them. Insurgents, terrorists... Whatever it was, they had won and proved to God that they could deal with the worst of mankind.
Well, it turns out that, in the end, God’s opinion was quite different from theirs. Really, monsters?! Shades?! Oh, that made Hendrix and his killers rethink their tactics. It was something that deserved his respect and, in this new scenario, Hendrix wasn’t sure he could play nanny while fighting monsters. But he’d have to find a way.
Adapt and overcome, boy, adapt and overcome...
They got to the beach with no problems. It looked like a war zone, with parasols and plastic chairs abandoned in every direction. Hendrix took the lead as soon as he stepped ashore, and the men followed him silently, spreading in battle intervals. Each of them knew their role and, for the time being, Knight was walking close to Desmond and keeping an eye on the analyst so he wouldn’t shoot himself — or worse, on one of them. Desmond was having problems to move with the exosuit, and Hendrix was praying for him to not fall at each five steps.
The quietude of the environment around them was uncomfortable. Regardless of the rain and the ocean that resounded with the collapse of the waves, everything was still — or, rather, dead. The motion sensors of Hendrix’s suit also didn’t show anything on his monocular HUD, but neither he nor his men found comfort on this. It was more than mere professionalism — their training telling that they should never lower their guard in hostile territory —, it was anxiety, a term that the monsters easily stimulate. In a pre-Shade environment, Hendrix wouldn’t feel anything, but now? Tell a kid that ghosts are real, and he’s going to start seeing them everywhere.
The operators’ exosuits made no noise as they move along the beach, and soon they were in the street. Devereaux made a hand signal, pointing to a building a few blocks away. Hendrix nodded. Under no circumstances should they stay in the open — they needed cover, a place relatively safe from where they could watch the streets and wait for the girl, Olivia, to show up. That building would do.
The team made its way down the street, past empty vehicles scattered along the road, their eyes going from side to side
. The rain didn’t help, descending into streams, limiting sight and suppressing other noises — sure, that hid them from the monsters, but could also be equally used by the Shades. Oddly, they hadn’t yet seen any dead body or Shade, but there was evidence of the Plague’s touch everywhere — Brazil wasn’t spared.
Hendrix wondered how long it would be until they started firing in all directions. After all, there were hundreds of places from where the Shades could sneak up to attack them: the door or window of a house, under an abandoned car, sometimes even jumping from the top of buildings —, he had already seen it happen.
In spite of their reservations, they arrived at the building without incident.
“That was very easy,” Knight said after they checked the lobby and confirmed it was clear. He shook his head, making water splash out of his head like a wet dog. “You know, I always wanted to visit Brazil. I never imagined it would be at the end of the world, during a war — much less it would be raining...”
“Well, I’m not impressed with what I’ve seen,” Archer said. “It’s a city ravaged by monsters like the rest.”
“It hasn’t really changed much,” Schaeffer said.
“What? You’ve been here?” Devereaux asked, “When?”
“I visited Angra dos Reis a few years ago. Beautiful place with friendly people, good food...”
“And what was your opinion of the country?”
Schaeffer shrugged. “Pretty normal, I guess. Good people, bad people, bad cities, good cities, a worthless government... That sort of thing...”
Hendrix interrupted the chat and approached Devereaux. “Last level?” he asked.
The sniper just shrugged, holding his Semper Fi M146 EBR-RI close to his chest. “The roof — it’s wet there, but the higher the better.”
Hendrix nodded, “Take Reznik. We will stay in the fifth.”
They took over an apartment that gave a wide view of the beach and the route the girl would probably take. Hendrix approached one of the windows and scanned the empty dead streets. Not that he could see much with that rain, of course, at least not with the naked eye.
The War Within #1: Victims Page 9