by Mark Tufo
“We’re clear, sir, but I don’t agree with the risk that you are taking here.”
“That’s why I like you, Frank. You’ve never been a yes man. Now get it done.”
“Right away, sir.”
***
“Have you gotten that damned thing to work yet?” Dennis yelled after his last burst found pay dirt in the scumbag who had come through the produce aisle. The remaining seven UEMC were now pinned behind the deli counter. Glass shards flew everywhere as bullets exploded all around them. Dennis hoped the rebels didn’t have any hand grenades or the battle would come to a quick and nasty conclusion.
“Sergeant, did headquarters get the last message?”
“Captain, I don’t know. The radio operator was shot at almost the same time the radio was.”
'Damn', Dennis thought. It’s another fifteen minutes ‘til the next check in. This little skirmish would be long over before the Hill even realized it had started.
“Sir, I don’t think it will matter even if they got the message. You know the protocol as well as I do. With the supply tunnel temporarily down, the standing order is to let this place fall, if necessary.”
“I know the orders, Sergeant. I just have no desire to die next to cured meats. How are we doing on ammo?”
“We’ve got enough to take them out. I just don’t think we have the manpower to do it.”
“I appreciate the candor, Sergeant, but is this really the time for sarcasm?” Dennis said as he sat down hard on his ass to change his magazine out.
“Sir, they are coming up aisle eight,” an over exuberant private yelled.
"Well, it seems that the fat lady is beginning to warm up." Dennis said.
Shortly, they would be completely flanked and it was only a matter of time.
'Well, at least I’ll go out with a bang', Dennis thought. He stood up to fire off his newest cartridge when a bullet ripped his helmet clean off. Blood flew from the side of his head as he spun downwards, smashing his head on a…What? A ham? And the world went black for Dennis.
“Colonel’s down, men,” the sergeant shouted over the volley of rounds. “I say we go out in style.” The five remaining soldiers didn’t completely concur with the sergeant’s point of view but they saw the writing on the wall. Better to go out fighting than sitting here huddled together. With that, the six remaining men stood up and shoulder-to-shoulder, momentarily caught the usurpers off guard.
Many of them fell before they gathered their wits; and then numbers and strategic location began to take its toll. One by one, the defenders fell, most of them with multiple wounds, but still they pressed on. When their clips had been emptied, only two survived to rearm--the sergeant and the private who warned about the approach on aisle eight.
“Well, son, it’s just you and me now. No sense in keeping God waiting,” the sergeant said, pride swelling up in his chest. The private really didn’t mind though if God waited, say another fifty or sixty years, but no way was he going to let the sergeant die alone.
The attackers had momentarily ceased their onslaught. They knew what was coming, and they had no desire to be caught off guard again. Let the poor bastards show themselves again; they’d be more than happy to end the day from where they waited. The sergeant was milliseconds away from standing and opening fire when he heard gunfire from outside the store.
“Sergeant! What is that? Are they celebrating their victory before we’re dead?” The private asked. The sergeant didn’t think so.
“Naw! Nobody would waste ammo like that anymore. We’ve got help.”
“Help? From where? No one would come from the Hill.”
“Private, I don’t know, but do you really care from where? Who knows? Maybe it’s one of our patrols.” The sergeant didn’t really believe that because the patrols were usually only four or five people and this sounded like a hell of a lot more gunfire. “I hope it’s not the Hill.”
“Sergeant? Are you crazy? We’re being saved.”
“I’ll never live this down if we survive. I let my commanding officer fall in battle. I didn’t hold our position and then I had to be saved by headquarters. It’s over… No way I’m going out like this.”
The sergeant jumped over what remained of the deli counter and began advancing on the enemy, whose attention had been drawn to the front of the store, to engage in a new battle. The sergeant’s gun began to glow a dull red as he fired away at anyone who retreated from his near suicidal advance and maniacal laugh.
***
The crack alpha squads caught the potential Stop and Shop usurpers completely unaware, so wrapped up were they in the battle being waged at the back of the store. The rescue effort was nearly completed before it was started. The rogue gang did not have the foresight to post a rear guard for such an event. Major Salazar was convinced that they were merely desperate people who had armed themselves, and not a truly organized force.
A few of the more desperate individuals made for the side doors to try to salvage what little of their existence still remained. Under normal conditions, Major Salazar would have allowed their retreat, but too much was at stake now. “Lieutenant Braverly, I do not want any prisoners,” the major shouted over the finale of shots being fired.
Lieutenant Braverly, a slender man of Australian descent, saluted and motioned for his squad to peel off from the main assault. He had been a career soldier in the Australian Royal Guard and knew exactly what the major ordered him to do. He dispatched his men with not so much as a flicker of disobedience in his eyes.
Major Salazar had seen his fair share of bloodshed but had never come across someone with such a predisposition for warfare as Lieutenant Braverly. The man struck a chord of fear deep within Salazar’s soul. It was something he couldn’t quite grasp, but possibly stemmed from the man’s penchant for cold and calculating precision. He seemed more robot than human, at times.
Major Salazar had known the man for something close to a year and, for the life of him, never remembered ever seeing the man smile. The major watched in detachment as Lieutenant Braverly’s men closed in on and dispatched of the enemy, as if sweeping up a dirty floor. Lieutenant Braverly had hand-picked his men most likely because they, for the most part, matched his persona. Major Salazar thought these men might need some further investigation, but thus far, their record of accomplishment had been second to none.
“If it’s not broken, don’t fix it. That’s what my dad used to say,” the major muttered as he headed towards the back of the store where he hoped to find Captain Waggoner safe. What the major saw, however, both shocked and amazed him. His good friend and one of his commander’s best friends was lying in a pool of blood. He was hard pressed to call it a pool; it looked like a small pond, so much blood was lost. He still saw Captain Waggoner attempt to move. Major Salazar was in momentary shock. There was no way somebody could lose that much blood and still be trying to hold on to life.
“Relax, Frank, it’s not mine, at least not most of it,” Dennis said as he sat up with great effort. His head was ringing like Big Ben. “Could you please stop letting flies land in your mouth and get over here and help me up?”
Frank walked over, extending his hand, valiantly trying to retain a good footing on the slick, bloodstained tile. Dennis grabbed his helmet as Frank hefted him up. Both men gaped at the helmet wondering how anyone could survive from the bullet hole. The slug had entered the helmet dead square in the center of Dennis’ forehead, but was deflected by the sturdy Kevlar armor. The bullet veered hard right instead and scraped the side of Dennis’ skull. He bled out like a stuck pig but, beyond not getting haircuts for a while, he was no worse for the wear.
“You might just be the luckiest man on the planet, Dennis!” Frank said as he slapped Dennis on the shoulder. That rattled Dennis’ brain almost more than the bullet. He winced some, but not enough to ruin Frank’s exuberance.
“I don’t know if losing almost all of my squad would fall under luck, Frank.” Frank nodded and held his
tongue for a respectful moment of silence before he spoke.
“Part of that might be true, Dennis, but you held your post against a force five times your size and they ambushed you.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Frank, but now the matter becomes, why did they surprise us? There’s no way that this many guys should have been able to just waltz on up here. I want to know where every listening post was assigned today and I want to know who was manning them,” Dennis said. His heart was beginning to beat more rapidly at the thought of betrayal from within, and his heart’s hammering did nothing to quell the throbbing in his head. Dennis paled for a moment and caught Frank’s shoulder.
“I’ll get that for you, Dennis, but right now I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“I wish I had the strength to tell you to go fuck yourself, but that sounds like a pretty good idea to me,” Frank snorted as he put his arm around his comrade and walked him out. He made sure to make it look more like they were coming out as brothers-in-arms, instead of acting as the physical support, he felt that Dennis needed. He could tell Dennis’ knees were wobbly at best, but still he threw on the brave front.
“Only you could be shot in the head and walk away from it,” Frank said as he smiled.
“Well, I was always told there wasn’t much in there anyway. I guess this just proves it. By the way, how did you guys get down here? I thought the tunnel wasn’t going to be ready for another couple of weeks.”
“We didn’t use the tunnel.” Dennis looked perplexed for a moment before the realization hit.
“Don’t tell me you used the escape hatches? You and I both know that could jeopardize this whole operation.”
“I let him know that; and we do have a contingency plan in effect as we speak.”
“What is it?” Dennis questioned.
“Don’t worry about that now, we have more serious threats to our immediate safety.”
“Such as?”
“We have reason to believe that the cave-in was deliberately orchestrated.”
“Who would do that and why?”
“Probably the same person or persons who let our little rogue unit slip through the cracks.”
“You mean you think we have saboteurs in our midst too?” Dennis asked.
“That would seem to be the case.”
“Is it the National Guardsmen?”
“That would have been our first option; but we keep pretty good tabs on them and they are always assigned to our men when out on patrol or other such missions.”
“Oh this is just beautiful! I lost my men here to some renegade within our ranks! That poor bastard had better hope that I’m not the one that finds him.”
“Don’t worry, Dennis; we’ll flush him out eventually.” Both men reflected on the word 'eventually.' Sure, odds were that they’d find the betrayer or betrayers, but would it be too late by then? Would whatever damage they intended to inflict already be done?
Chapter 32 – Mike Journal Entry Five
“Where am I!” I yelled. At least, I thought I yelled but what really came out was a small, shallow, dry rasp. Adrenaline surged in my veins as I struggled to recall where I was, orientation was nearly impossible. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I wasn’t even sure if I had moved my hand to that position.
My brain was so addled and cloudy, the first thoughts that raced through my head were that I’d been on an all night bender with Paul. Whoa! His name sounded a small alarm in the back of my head; but why? Did he drink my last beer the night before? Why would I be mad at Paul? Then the queasiness hit; first my head, and then my stomach as I evacuated whatever was in there. I felt so hungry, how could I possibly throw something back up?
The clouds began to part in my head as I realized I was on the alien ship. I’d never gotten off it. This had been all some elaborate stress-induced dream! I was on the ship and there was nothing I could do, nor anybody to save me. I was going to be facing Durgan soon and he would finish off what little of me was left.
But I felt all right with myself and with God. I felt I had made peace with those who mattered most to me even if it were only in a dream. I said goodbye to my sister, my father, my brothers, Dennis and Paul.
“Bong!” There it went again. What the hell was that? Tiny electrical currents rippled through my brain as it racked itself, looking for the connection between my alarm and Paul’s name. As the synopsis struck home, I was slapped with the brutal reality that my best friend had shot me… Shot me? Shot me!!!
“He shot me!” I rattled again. My brain transferred its thought from that staggering blow to the next. So where were we then? It asked, oh, so softly.
This was hell. This was my just reward for killing those people. How long was one relegated to purgatory? Fear was my constant companion. Would I forever be alone and never again see the light? I meant that figuratively and literally. Was there emotion in hell? I guess there must be. What would be the purpose of pain and suffering if you didn’t care? Would Lucifer himself address me? That thought terrified me more than facing the entire population of the alien ship with an air rifle. They could only kill you once; but Lucifer could do it for all eternity and in an infinite number of ways.
Was hell supposed to be cold? My back burned from the frozen surface that I was making contact with. Not having complete control over my extremities, I forcibly moved my hand to gain a sensory perspective on my surroundings. The surface was cool to the touch and damp.
Was their moisture in hell? Who knows? I scratched the surface of the material with my fingernail. I could feel a sliver of it work its way under my nail, but it wasn’t a sharp pain like you would expect from a splinter. It was more like the aggravation you get when you are working on a car and grease gets under your nails. It was more of a mild irritation.
My head throbbed in pain but I was unsure if I would be able to raise my hands high enough to rub my sore temples. Even with the iciness of the surface I was on, sweat began to break out all over my body as I struggled to regain control of my body. Did Paul paralyze me? Or blind me? Was anything I was doing now reality? Or was I trapped in my mind? Like a comatose patient, was I struggling in the dark to find my way back to reality? Yup, I was definitely back to the point where I wished that I was facing the aliens again. I didn’t care if I had no more than a slingshot either.
My hand eventually found its way to my skull, where it encountered spiders. Oh God! Spiders! Spiders were crawling on my head and I didn’t even have enough strength to wipe them away. They were eating me! I was trapped in a web and they were eating me! My body spastically jerked as a bolt of synaptic energy found its way to a nerve receptor in my shoulder. I was able to jerk one of the “spiders” away when I realized that perhaps it wasn’t a spider at all.
I did not yet have enough control of my hand to grasp the new puzzle I was holding. Intuition told me that it was some sort of wire, a lead of some sort. Alright, so that effectively ruled out hell and/or purgatory. I didn’t really think that the devil needed to monitor my brain waves.
That, however, steered me back into the direction of being back on the alien vessel. Did Paul shoot me, then deliver me to the aliens? Or did I sustain such grievous wounds in the arena that I was on some sort of life support? Could everything else just be a dream? But I remembered the pain in my father’s eyes when he told me about mom. And I remembered the feeling when I left Beth and Debbie in Maine… That couldn’t have been just a dream. And I could never forget my feelings about Paul when I realized he'd shot me.
The betrayal cut deeper than any enemy sword ever could. If he’d really shot me, there would have to be sensory proof. No matter how long I’d been lying there, I'd find a scar. The question now became, would I be able to reach it? It would have been a difficult spot to touch even in the best of times and I was far from optimal at the moment.
Control of my body seemed to be coming back in spurts. I made a stab at rolling onto my side, but that was fairly ineffectual. What do t
urtles on their backs do? Oh yeah, they use their arms and legs to help topple them over. Neither leg seemed to be responding to the call for arms. Right now, I couldn’t be sure if I had them or not. Would my right arm, which I was guessing I had about fifty percent control of, be strong enough to get me on my side?
My next big hurdle was to make sure that I didn’t roll completely over onto my face, because I felt certain I did not have the strength to roll back over. My left leg began to twitch while I debated my rolling strategy. Energy was flooding back into my legs. Okay, maybe “flooding” was a bit of a stretch, but it was most assuredly trickling in, and right now, that was fine. Slowly but surely, I was reaffirming my humanity. The blindness was disturbing but if I was starting to feel my legs, maybe my sight wasn’t too far behind.
I burned with the desire to find out the truth of my location. Control or not, I was going to find out, to the best of my ability, where I was. I placed my right hand to my side and pressed for all I was worth. My muscles squealed in protest; my shoulder popped like it was trying to snap through the rust of disuse.
And, like a rocket that just seems to hang there at lift-off, I was stuck; having raised my shoulder barely two inches. Then, like that rocket that finally gains enough momentum, I broke free. Everything gave at once and I almost did what I feared--rolling myself completely over. But, like the cavalry, my left hand came to the rescue and stabilized me, albeit precariously, on my side.
Now the question, became would I be able to reach where I presumed Paul shot me? And if so, would my less than tactile digits be able to discern a scar from the rest of me? Pain coursed through me as I attempted to reach Paul, the betrayer’s, wound. Slowly, my hand inched its way to the hole, sweat pooling under my arms from the strain and pain.
Had this been the version of me two years ago, I would have just given up and let the chips fall where they may. But this was the new and improved Mike. I was version 2.0 now.