Dave struggles with the complicated work, dropping some pieces while others rocket off in the wrong direction. It’s a signal that the Men in Black grow ever closer, the ink in their suits throwing off The Current.
I’m not sure I actually hit anything, but I deliver hell to anything that moves. I flip the M4 to a three-shot burst mode to make sure my point about staying away gets across. Each mag holds 30 rounds, and I swap in a fresh one every minute or so. This is why I wear a bush jacket everywhere I go. With all those pockets, I’m able to load up on mags left by the Men in Black.
Of course, the weight makes me feel like I’m carrying a hockey team on my shoulders, but it also stabilizes my shaky hands. That cocaine is not without side effects. I tell myself that firing in burst mode is a habit I picked up in the military, where I learned to shoot on an M16, a close cousin of the M4. In reality, it’s to offset my shitty shooting. Without the drugs, I might only need one shot instead of three.
I make them count anyway while a frustrated and loudly cursing Dave toils away. He mentions something about parts being missing, but I’m too busy trading shots with a blob in the distance. It fires back, but Dave sucks the energy out of the shot and redirects it to his work once the bullet gets close.
You’re better than body armor, Dave.
This time, the voice in my head comes from within, not from my U.T. companion. Dave ignores me and concentrates on the flurry of multi-colored orbs circling the craft. A few lights turn on but, by the looks of it, we’re still a ways from launching.
“Get down,” Dave says after the latest round of shooting quiets. “I can’t protect you anymore. They’re getting too close.”
In response, a bullet drills a hole next to my boot. I spin in the direction it came from and try to locate the shooter in the scope. Make that shooters. About 200 yards away, two pairs of Men in Black lay on the desert sand behind a rifle damn near as long as I am tall.
I slide down the craft in time to avoid the crater that forms where I used to kneel.
“You’ve got to get them away from here or we’re fucked,” Dave says, as if I didn’t already know that. I hear the rumble of the machinery start up again, free from the drain of The Current.
It turns out, though, that the Men in Black are a lot closer than 200 yards away. Two emerge from behind a large piece of twisted metal not far away and make a beeline toward Dave. I switch the M4 over to full auto and mow them down at the knees as they run. A couple headshots keep them on the sand.
Another grabs me from behind, and I hit the ground for the umpteenth time, cursing Dave’s lack of help on the way down. I squeeze the trigger and sweep the Man in Black’s body as I fall, melting his face in gore.
I stumble to my feet and change out the mag in time to pop yet another Man in Black charging his way toward us. I can’t help but notice they abandon their firearms once they get close to Dave, presumably as a precaution. It seems stupid, but if they ever lost their suits, I suppose the guns could become a liability.
“I don’t know how long we can hold out like this,” I say to Dave once the wave finishes and I start burning bodies. “There’s more on the way, and we’re not in the best cover.”
Right on cue, a shot slams into the side of Dave’s craft, ruining the repair and adding even more time to our exit.
I offer Dave one of the M4s along with a few mags, then give him a crash course on how to shoot. It’s just in time. A beam of light announces the arrival of the business end of one of the bulldozers. We scramble out of the way as its blade tries to flatten us, and I catch a glimpse of the person at the wheel. Whoever it is looks like a typical government-contracted construction worker, not a Man in Black. I glance over at the smoldering bodies, and it’s clear the suits are toast. Which means…
“The Current, Dave. Use it. Quick,” I say in a hoarse shout over the sound of the ‘dozer’s engine.
“Open up with your gun. I’ll need all the energy I can get,” Dave says and takes his own advice. I follow suit and unload on the ‘dozer’s driver. He might be a sap caught in the middle of this for all I know, but so it goes in most of the world. If you’re not the one with the gun, you’re the one taking the bullet.
The headlights dim and the engine falls silent. I’d categorize what happens next as magic, but I know better. The ‘dozer goes nose up, then tips onto its back with a devastating crunch.
The injured driver scrambles out from the wreckage, and I debate for a moment whether to take an easy shot with the M4. Even in my hyperactive state, the restraint engrained in my subconscious from my military training takes over. The driver, hustling away from the overturned ‘dozer as fast as those broken legs will shuffle, isn’t a threat to me anymore.
Dave sees things differently. A piece of debris dislodges itself from the sand and plants itself into the back of the driver’s head.
“Serves you right, pig,” Dave says before turning to me and pointing at his craft. “Come on. If we’re fast, we might be able to take off.”
We sprint through the window and into the craft, chased by a volley of gunfire from somewhere off in the distance. From the sounds of it, we don’t have much more than a minute to get this thing in the air.
“You sure about this?” I say, noting how most of the craft is still in pieces on the ground. A few snap back into place as Dave scrambles to get ready.
“It’ll be a breezy ride, but I repaired everything critical. There’s just enough juice in the batteries to get us to the nearest hospital,” Dave says as he wipes sand off the control panel. Orbs of light descend from what’s left of the ceiling, appearing much fainter than before, and do a slow dance around his head.
“Hospital?” I say.
“Hospitals are like my gas stations. There’s one in almost every town with a decent population, they’re always powered up and they usually have a backup generator. Plenty to draw from,” Dave says. “Now hang on to something. We’re about to take off.”
They’re also full of patients not entirely different from my daughter.
Dave either ignores or doesn’t catch my thoughts in the flurry of getting the craft going. I wrap an arm around a naked support beam and listen as the sand drains from the craft’s shell. We rise a few feet as if hoisted by a winch. Everything seems to be going well, but we suddenly find ourselves back on the sand.
Dave unleashes a waterfall of profanity and points out the window. I catch a glimpse of a Man in Black ducking behind debris about 50 feet away. He’s not hidden well enough, though. Using the night vision scope on the M4, I place the reticle over his head. It’s a gimme.
But just as I’m about to pull the trigger so we can make our getaway, something freezes my finger in place.
It’s not The Current. It’s not the Men in Black. It’s not even my body finally giving up after all the abuse I’ve put it through. No, it’s my conscience that stops my finger in place against the trigger.
I don’t know if it’s the cocaine or my brain finally catching up to the situation, but I finally put a label on the nagging feeling I’ve had since the bar in Warsaw.
No one should have The Current. Not even Dave.
Dave, presently urging me to pull the trigger with flailing arms and flapping jaw, is supposed to be one step ahead of humanity. More evolved. More intelligent. More technological. Above the petty BS that governs much of day-to-day humanity.
Yet even he can’t see his obvious flaw. Rather than treat a species he views as more primitive with the kind of compassion and forgiveness that a parent would show a child, he falls into the same trap that every sentient being struggles with when encountering a perceived lesser. He disregards them, showing indifference at best and an enthusiasm for their destruction at worst, especially when he feels slighted.
How very human.
If a U.T. can’t handle the awesome power of The Current enough to not gas up at a hospital full of sick people, imagine what would happen if that tech fell into the hands of human bein
gs. Think of how eager my species is to destroy itself along the imaginary lines of politics, religion, race, nationality and other abstract boundaries we use to define our world, especially when any guilt or reasoning is laundered away when someone “has it coming,” as Dave would justify given the history of experimentation on U.T.
Now I understand what Dave meant when he told me earlier, “Either your curiosity will destroy you, or you will destroy what your curiosity discovers.” He’d hoped for the first, but I found my way to the second. For the sake of preventing an Apocalypse Bomb or anything like it, humanity can’t get The Current. And the only way to be sure that doesn’t happen is to destroy Dave.
I know just how I’ll do it.
I re-focus and pull the trigger, sending the Man in Black facedown onto the sand. Or rather, what’s-left-of-his-facedown.
“Quickly, Chase,” Dave says, motioning for me to hop out the window and light the Man in Black’s suit on fire. “We might only have seconds.”
I load a fresh mag into the M4 and scurry outside, taking care to check for other Men in Black before crouching down by the body. But instead of taking out my lighter, I pull out something else.
My knife.
I cut off a sleeve from the suit jacket and stuff it into a spare pocket on my bush jacket. Then I tug the rest of the jacket loose. Behind me I hear Dave shouting something like, “What the bloody hell are you doing?”
I know what I’m doing, just as I’m fully aware of my actions when I switch the M4 to full auto, spin on my heel and unload on Dave before he can realize what’s happening. There’ll be no telepathy this time, no Current for Dave to use to defend himself. He’s only a body to eat bullets, and that’s exactly what he does.
Dave’s still body isn’t large, so the tattered black suit jacket I drape over him covers completely. Using a few stray wires, I manage to tie the fabric tightly across his body to hold the jacket in place. If the knots come loose, I still have the sleeve in my pocket to prevent him from using The Current to put his body back together.
The plan from here on out is simple, at least on paper. All I need to do is get Dave’s body to Mt. Shasta 1,400 miles away in California, pass it off to Biyu in exchange for a thaw of those bank accounts, destroy Dave after that happens, fly back to New York City and make sure Ava’s medical needs are met. Oh, and somehow get the hell out of Dodge with a small army of Men in Black up my ass, minus my only ride out of here.
Just another day at the office.
I hear the rumble of the heavy machinery fire up once again, this time closer than before. Without Dave, the three remaining ‘dozers can do as they please within the debris field. I suppose the Men in Black will be making their final push as well. Everything is headed my way, and I doubt there’s enough ammo in my pockets to turn them around.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
What was that Dave mentioned? There’s a self-destruct button under the control panel? That’s the ticket.
The orbs of light usually milling about the interior of the craft go dark as I run my hands along the control panel. I have no idea if what I’m looking for is actually a button or something else. I remember seeing Dave feed the orbs into the panel, but it looks like that won’t be an option.
Glancing out the window, I see the Men in Black have upgraded their mode of transportation. A dozen or so cling to a trio of approaching ‘dozers.
This is either going to work or I’m dead.
I free up my arms by ditching the M4s and the bush jacket, crouching down beneath the panel. Nothing. Not even a serial code or a Made in China stamp.
Maybe he meant “under” as in the floor?
I unsheathe the ESEE knife and hack away at metal beneath my feet. I may as well be using a sack of feathers. My blade is no match for the solid metal that makes up the floor.
The ‘dozers’ engines quiet as the machinery closes in on the final stretch to the craft. Time is running out.
So is my patience. I beat the pommel of the knife on the control panel with the full force of my frustration. It’s only counterproductive for a moment. I feel electricity shoot up my leg as the craft begins to vibrate.
If this isn’t the self-destruct mechanism in action, I don’t know what is.
I sheathe the knife, sling the M4 with the night vision scope over my shoulder and throw Dave’s cloaked body over the other, then high-tail it out the window.
I’m greeted by a shot from one of the ‘dozers, now only 100 feet or so away. It catches me in the arm, but I’m too loaded on adrenaline to notice where it hits. My tunnel vision points me toward the overturned ‘dozer. I have no idea whether it’s enough shelter for the craft’s self-destruction, but it’s my only option.
I duck behind the side of the ‘dozer that puts the most mangled metal between myself and the craft, taking cover just as the Men in Black hop down and rush toward me.
To my surprise, what happens next isn’t an explosion. It’s something far stranger.
The craft explodes, but it’s not quite the stuff of action movies. Instead of erupting in a fiery ball of flame, the craft melts into millions of beads of molten metal that suspend in mid-air for a brief moment. Then they fire horizontally out into the debris field, gluing themselves to everything in their paths, including the Men in Black.
Sheltered from the gray-ish rain from my position behind the overturned ‘dozer, I’m spared the agony that follows. The Men in Black dissolve on contact. Slowly. If they didn’t feel pain before, they sure as hell do now. Even in their monotony, their voices scream out in shock as they watch themselves melt into the sand.
The heat coming from the droplets is intense, but it doesn’t seem to affect anything metallic, as noted by the sudden and hurried retreat of the other three ‘dozers.
I can’t help but feel for the Men in Black, and I tell myself it’s an act of mercy to roll out from my hiding spot and use the M4 to put the last few out of their misery.
Returning to my spot, I suck hard at the superheated air and cough, jolting my body into remembering it’s been shot in the arm. It’s hard to tell where the blood is coming from, but I think the wound is somewhere in my upper left arm.
Feeling a bit light-headed, I start to wonder if my body’s entering shock. This latest injury might be the last bit of abuse it can take. Nary an inch from my head to my toes has been spared blood, bludgeon or bruise.
My hand moves to unsheathe the ESEE knife, but it never makes it. Just as the sun starts its daily chin-up over the horizon, I pass out.
The feeling of something prodding my shoulder and the piercing stare of the sun pull me back into lucidity. I’m still rested against the side of the ‘dozer, as the pinched nerve in my neck indicates, but the day must be several hours into sunlight judging by the colors probing the creases of my eyelids.
The touch on my shoulder returns, and I slap whatever it is away on instinct. It’s returned with a, “Hey, now. I’m trying to help.”
The voice isn’t monotonous like the Men in Black or profane like Dave. It’s kind and elderly.
Opening my eyes, I see a man and a woman standing over me. They’re dressed like they’re out for a hike.
“Are you an alien?” the woman says and offers a canteen.
I ignore the canteen for now, instead patting myself down to make sure the ESEE knife and my .45 are still in their shoulder rigs. Check. M4? Check. Dave’s body? Check.
But what’s this on my left arm? Is that a bandage? It sure is, and it’s stopped the bleeding from the gunshot wound. There’s still plenty of hurt to go around, but at least I’ll keep my arm.
Who are these people?
“What?” I say after clearing my throat with a drink from the canteen. “Alien?”
“Yeah, we were out looking for our friends who went missing. Then we found all of this,” the woman says and points at the carnage of twisted metal, bodies and tech spread out across the desert.
Missing friends? They must be with t
hat skywatcher group. I don’t want to be the one to tell them the news.
“Skywatchers 51, right? Sorry, I haven’t seen your friends,” I say. “And I’m not an alien.”
The woman gives me a puzzled look. “Then how did you know the name of our club?” she says.
Oops.
“Sorry, I don’t know that, either,” I say and struggle to my feet, the crust of filth coating my skin cracking its shell. The pair helps me up, although I nearly fall back down from the pain coursing through my body like an airliner on fire.
“What happened here?” the man says. His tone is a little pushy. “And why do you have all these weapons? And what about these bodies on the ground? Is that a crashed flying saucer? It looks like a war zone out here.”
I get the hunch that these two aren’t alone, and that first responder crews will be on the scene any minute. Or, for that matter, official military personnel. I’m not sure I want to stick around for any of that. My head hurts like a bastard, but I’m still sharp enough to realize there’s a way out.
“It’s a long story, but maybe we can chat about it in the car,” I say and sling the M4 over my shoulder.
The pair takes a step back.
“You’re not going to kill us, are you?” the woman says. “Mister, we don’t have any money. We’re retired. We do this skywatcher club for fun.”
“Yeah, well, you just found yourself in a whole barrel of fun,” I say and throw Dave’s cloaked body over my free shoulder. “Listen. What happened out here would blow your mind, but it’s right up your alley. I’d be happy to tell you all about it, but I need a ride to northern California. Mt. Shasta, to be exact.”
“North California? That’ll take at least 24 hours of driving. How about we drop you off in town?” the man says.
I shake my head. “You can either give me a ride or I can help myself to it. Your choice.”
It doesn’t feel good to be such a dick to someone who patched me up, but I don’t have many options. And I can’t think of better cover to move about the country than a pair of retirees who probably drive 10 miles under the speed limit on a good day.
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 8