by John L. Monk
“You attacked us!”
“Because I didn’t know what a nice guy you were, okay?”
“Please, everyone, just stop!” Chelsea shouted in that ear-splitting wail of hers.
Tony was gasping for air and struggling—and failing—to heave Dylan off.
Dylan said, “I’ll stop if he stops.”
Tony glared, not saying anything, but Dylan thought the immediate threat was over.
“In case you didn’t notice,” Dylan said, climbing to his feet, “I also saved your life. Aaron was about to shoot you too. But if you wanna be a little bitch, fine by me.”
Tony got up and lurched against the wall for balance. He didn’t reply to the obvious truth that yeah, he was alive because of Dylan. He sat on one of the beds bolted to the wall and glowered. Chelsea sat next to him and hugged him tightly. A second later, he put his arm around her, and together they cried for their lost friends.
Dylan looked away, giving them space, knowing it was his fault for capturing them in the first place. He worried what Aaron would do with the information Tony had provided, and what would happen to him and the others afterward.
Lots of worries.
Several days passed, with occasional visits from one of Aaron’s goons carrying FEMA bars and bottles of tan-colored water. They weren’t even boiling it, Dylan was positive. But then the visits stopped, and now he’d give anything for a drop of the stuff.
The police section was in the long corridor between terminals A and B/C, which meant nobody knew they were locked in the cell except Aaron and the people Dylan once counted as friends. The little children in A never ventured down this way because it was too close to Aaron’s group.
Andrew’s body rested in plain view of the cell and had begun to smell. Dylan was sure Aaron had left it there to mess with their heads. The kid was a freak. How anyone could get like that was a real mystery. On the bright side, Tony had started talking a little, and his fury seemed to have run its course.
Dylan smiled at Chelsea. “Your turn at the pipe.” His voice emerged as a raspy croak, because the faucet only produced a short trickle every hour or so, and it seemed like every time they opened the tap less came out.
“Thanks,” she said and shuffled over for a slurp.
There were windows somewhere in the office, so they could tell the difference between day and night. By the time one of Aaron’s people showed up with food and no water, they’d stopped counting the days.
The boy was between twelve and thirteen, with long brown hair and a grubby face.
“Can you bring us water?” Dylan said.
“What?” the boy said. “Water? Aaron didn’t say to bring no water … Aaron’s real serious about stuff. I don’t wanna get in trouble.” He shoved three bars through the special slot for food and stepped back.
“Can you at least take away Andrew’s body?” Tony said through gritted teeth.
“W-who’s Andrew?” the boy said with a slight tremor in his voice.
“He is!” Tony shouted, pointing at the dead body not three feet from him.
“I ain’t touching Andrew,” the boy said, backing away and shaking his head. “I gotta go!”
“Tell him we need water!” Dylan shouted.
The outer door opened and shut again.
Another day passed. Dylan’s tongue had begun to swell in his mouth, and he felt dizzy all the time. He figured he was dying, when he could figure anything at all. The FEMA bars were still on the ground near the cell door, untouched. Nobody felt like eating. Couldn’t get them down if they tried.
When the door opened again, the same boy returned, and this time he was armed with a pistol and a rifle slung across his back.
“I gotta shoot the black kid and the girl and let you out!” he shouted, eyes frantic, chest heaving as if having run a marathon. “They attacked again! Those kids! I brung you a gun, see?” He unslung the rifle and sent it clattering to the floor.
“Whaa …?” Dylan said through cracked lips. Then, in an effort of superhuman will, he sat up.
“Aaron says you gotta guard the big hallway! I gotta help you! Hold on, I’m getting the door.”
“Wait a minute,” Dylan said, blinking in confusion. “What do you mean … being attacked?”
Lying on his cot, Tony chuckled softly. “It’s Jack. Knew he’d come. He’s cold like that. Greg must have told him.”
Wondering who Greg was, Dylan staggered to his feet and approached the door.
The boy said, “Back up and get out of the way. You don’t gotta watch if you’re scared. I already killed three already.”
The door opened and the kid was there, gun in hand, already aiming when Dylan grabbed it and jerked it up high. That’s when Chelsea attacked, darting across the room faster than it seemed possible. She grabbed the kid’s arm, twisting it so the gun pointed out of the cell. The boy fired once, twice, three times, wailing in fear while Chelsea pried the gun away.
“Got it,” she said, panting for breath, aiming unsteadily at the kid.
“Don’t shoot!” the boy shouted. He crab-walked away with a hand held protectively out.
Chelsea fired twice, missing him once and hitting him in the chest the second time. Then she turned around and regarded Dylan … who raised his hands.
“What?” she said, staring at him confusedly. She slipped the gun into her back pocket and picked up the rifle. Tony came out of the cell wearing a blank expression. He was limping a little.
“Gimme a gun,” he said.
She handed him the rifle, which had a magazine already in it.
Tony said, “Surprised they … all ain’t kill themselves yet. Damned thing’s ready to fire. Just gotta … safety’s on, now.”
Dylan considered making a break for it, but didn’t.
“Would you calm down?” Tony said tiredly. “You ain’t them … I know it. But we gotta go. Need some damned water, too.”
Dylan nodded. “I know where we can get some. Come on.”
46
Lisa pried open the sliding doors to Terminal A and led the way in—and then suddenly wished she owned a gas mask. The place smelled like a sewer.
Off in the distance, the steady POW, POW, POW of hunting rifles could be heard—Greg on an office building, doing his job. She shook her head, hating the idea of her twin brother being anywhere near here.
So finish this quick.
Behind her, thirty ex-Dragsters and twenty kids from the new bases huddled together, their expressions ranging from anxious to terrified to nothing at all. She’d stuck the bigger, meaner kids at the back. The idea being they’d stop anyone who tried to run away. A cold part of her also noted that losing the weaker ones up front would be less costly. She hated that cold part of herself, and longed for a day when she could shut it away forever.
“Looks empty,” Olivia said, staring up the long, sloping hallway leading to the ticket booths, baggage claim, and the distant gates.
Lisa strutted forward without a backward glance. “Let’s go!”
She started slowly for fear they’d trip over themselves. One of them was crying. Wait, no … more than one. A girl said she wanted her mommy, but nobody laughed. Everyone in that hallway wanted their mommies.
When they came to the baggage claim, a little girl no more than eight sprinted from behind a coffee stand to the security checkpoint and the gates beyond. Before she got there, a volley of rifle fire shattered the quiet and the child went flying.
Lisa whirled around, shaking with fury. “Who did that?”
It immediately became clear who’d done it from the circle that opened around an ex-Dragster named Quinn, fifteen years old. He looked terrified, but also defiant. “I was supposed to! You said!”
She slapped him so hard across the face her hand stung to the bone, knocking him over.
“Nobody said to kill unarmed children! If they have a gun, shoot. If they’re little and you gotta shoot something, shoot yourself!”
The boy’s f
ace blanched, and he crawled away from her. He bumped into someone and got shoved for it.
“Don’t kill little kids, stupid murderer,” someone said from farther back.
A few others muttered quiet words of agreement … and just like that, her group had found something to unite around other than their fear. As they stepped forward in the direction of wherever the child had been running, they were less bunched together, steadier in their pace.
They passed through security and headed toward gates one through nine. At first, they didn’t see anyone. Four gates passed and they heard the sound of crying children. Now five gates, then six, then they saw them down at the end of the concourse.
“Where did all these kids come from?” Olivia said.
“Has to be almost two hundred,” Lisa said, gazing around in wonder.
Cots, blankets, and sleeping bags were strewn everywhere. Little kids—all under ten—peeked out from under them. Some cried, but most watched in fear.
Lisa was about to suggest they turn around and head back, make their way to the other section she’d seen on a wall map, when a voice said, “Lisa? That you?”
Everyone raised their guns, pointing at a boarding kiosk, but held their fire.
Though raspy, she’d recognized the voice. “That you, Tone?”
“Sure is,” he said. “Got Chelsea here, too. And another kid. Can we come out? Heard someone shooting back there. Not gonna blow our heads off?”
Lisa laughed, smiling for the first time in ages. “Just go slow, okay? We’ve had accidents.”
“Lot of that going around,” Tony said and crept cautiously into view, followed by Chelsea and a teenaged boy she didn’t recognize who had his hands up.
“Hi,” the kid said. “I’m Dylan.”
Jack pulled a small crowbar from his backpack and pried open one of the numbered doors below the huge expanse of windows. The enemy was up there and had taken some shots—holing the glass but not shattering it—and he and the others were forced to flatten themselves against the wall.
The door popped open easily and Jack went first, followed by Larry and the children, then the rest of the boat kids.
“Oh, wow, it stinks in here,” Larry said, wrinkling his nose. “Someone’s been shitting where they eat.”
The place did, in fact, smell a little like the Big Timber outhouse. Of all the things Jack had expected, this hadn’t been one of them.
“Come on,” he said, and moved into a warehouse area with conveyors as far as he could see.
“Think they’re for suitcases,” Larry said.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I flew in an airplane, once. We carried ours on with us.”
Kids poured in behind them, numbering about thirty-five. Close to fifty, counting the little kids with their pistols. In total, a little more than half what they’d originally planned on.
“One second,” Larry said. He pulled a metal thermos from his pack and told the little ones to line up. “One at a time, come forward. You, there—Reilly, isn’t it? Kinda name is that, anyway? Never mind. Hold your nose and drink.” The other children pushed forward when Reilly hesitated and Larry said, “Dammit, one at a time.”
Reilly took a big gulp, then sputtered and coughed and wiped his eyes.
“My pops said you’re a man when you have your first drink,” Larry said. “How’s it feel?”
Reilly wiped his eyes and shuddered. “Eeew.”
Larry laughed. “What I’d expect from a Reilly. Next!”
One after the other, the starving members of Trevor’s suicide squad took their drinks and made disgusted faces.
Jack struggled to keep from frowning. He both hated and appreciated what Larry was doing.
“Okay,” Jack said at last. He opened a metal door, looked out, and then closed it. “It’s clear. Everyone line up. When I open it again, go through and hold your ground.”
They lined up, and he opened the door … and nobody moved.
Larry shouted, “What are you doing? Move it!” He racked his shotgun for added effect. “Last one in gets shot in the ass.”
Jack watched as the entire group rushed through, nearly falling over themselves to get in. He waited tensely for the sounds of gunfire but none came. When he and Larry went through, they found themselves in an empty baggage claim area that stretched forever.
“Wait here,” Jack said in a low voice.
Running to the closest stairway, about thirty yards away, he marveled at how much room there was. Could people really have stayed here all winter?
The stairway was really a motionless escalator. When he peeked over the rubber banister, automatic gunfire tore up the floor directly behind him. He leaped to safety and the shooting stopped, replaced by threats and insults hurled from the enemy upstairs.
Jack waved Larry and the others over.
“There’s staircases all the way down,” Jack said. He picked five kids at random. “You guys go down and find a way up. Larry and you others—” he indicated the suicide group “—follow me. Trevor, you got it here?”
“Yep,” Trevor said, grinning from the back.
Jack led his force in the opposite direction of the escalators toward the street entrance. He knew from the drone flight that the parking garage was on the other side. They had a tense moment when they entered a wide area with parking kiosks, and plenty of places to hide. But it was empty, and they quickly emerged outside.
Automatic and single-shot gunfire carried from where he’d left Trevor and his crew—which meant they were actually fighting and not running away. It helped that they didn’t have any boats to run back to.
“Jack, look!” a sandy-haired kid shouted, pointing down the road.
Coming their way was a truck with a blemish-free windshield and a kid on the roof. The gunner fired, the glass doors shattered … and the shooting abruptly stopped.
Jack didn’t pause to marvel at his good fortune. “Run!” he shouted, already moving. “In the garage and up the stairs!”
They outpaced him in their terror while Jack covered them—firing fast to spook the driver. When the last of the children were safe, he ducked into the garage and entered the stairwell. Together, they climbed the stairs to the sound of screeching tires and the truck’s roaring engine.
Jack couldn’t be sure, but he thought he’d heard a bang that didn’t sound like an AR or the gun from the truck. Notable, because that’s when the gunner had stopped shooting.
He kept climbing. A covered walkway on the third floor led back to the airport, where the enemy and the boat kids were shooting nonstop.
“All right, spread out and let’s move,” he said.
Greg’s instructions had been to not only shoot the guards at the roadblock but to take out anyone making for one of the attack trucks. But now he had a problem. Despite the clear view of this side of the airport, as well as the parkway, there was a whopping-big parking structure close to the spot with the trucks. They managed to deny four of the vehicles to the enemy by shooting anyone who went for them—three kids, so far. But someone had gotten lucky and snagged one. Must have snuck in through a back hatch, because nobody saw them approach or get in from the sides.
Greg scoured the area with binoculars and saw a group of kids hiding in the entrance to the parking garage.
“Everyone!” he shouted. “Look there!”
Two kids popped out, dashing for the nearest truck, only to run back when the marksmen opened fire. They were too far away and too quick to get a bead on. Given enough time, they’d eventually snag another truck.
“We gotta get closer,” Greg said. “We need a better view, too. You … and you. We need to get over there.”
The first you was directed at a big kid named Dwayne, the second at a girl named Sheila he kind of liked. He’d been watching her for a while now. Her shooting form was amazing.
Greg pointed over the side. “You others watch our backs. You see someone … you know. Okay?”
“We got you,” a kid n
amed Jerry said. “Just hurry.”
Greg didn’t particularly like ordering people to kill other people. Messed with his whole lover/not-a-fighter thing. But his sister was down there somewhere—and Jack, his best friend in the world.
They took the stairs as fast as they could, then tore across the bridge under the cover of the marksmen. They weren’t harassed, but Greg felt exposed the whole way. He didn’t feel better until they’d entered the garage through a more remote entrance than the one held by the enemy.
“We gonna go get them or what?” Dwayne said.
“You mean head-on? Are you nuts?” Greg thought quickly. “Let’s go to the top. We can get right over them and … you know … when they come out.”
They climbed a nearby staircase and hurried across the upper lot—and that’s when they noticed six kids way at the other end, pointing their way and shouting a lot. A sudden POW! from the marksmen and the kids dashed for the safety of the nearest stairwell.
Greg and the others took chase, hoping to catch the kids before they were lost entirely. When he got to the stairwell and looked down, they were gone. Which meant they could be on any level.
“What now?” Dwayne said.
“We keep an eye out,” Greg said.
“What about you?” Sheila said with a judgmental smirk. “Gonna supervise more?”
Greg matched her look with a smirk of his own. “Never underestimate the power of expert supervision. We’re fine up here. The plan hasn’t changed. We still need to guard those truck things.”
Sheila snorted and followed him out.
Greg noticed it was easy to guard the street directly in front of the airport terminal as well as the four remaining trucks. So he split up his small force to cover both. Five minutes passed with nothing happening. Then—wonder of all—Jack and a ton of little kids came outside.
“Hey, man!” Greg shouted, waving at him, but got drowned out by the big truck barreling down the road directly toward his friend.