by sara12356
“I’m having trouble deciding where I’m going to shoot you next, Mister Braddock,” Prendick said, still in an odd, friendly sort of voice.
“You set up every soldier in this camp,” Andrew snapped. “They trusted you and you brought them out here to put that shit inside of them, use them as your goddamn guinea pigs.”
“Some place that won’t be immediately fatal,” Prendick continued, sounding unfazed.
“You mean like Idaho?” Andrew called back. “Because the way you shoot, that’s about all you’re going to hit, you dumb fuck.”
“Some place that’s sure to cause you excruciating pain,” Prendick said, then uttered a little a-ha! sound. “I know.”
Pivoting, he squeezed the trigger, shooting at Dani.
“No!” Andrew screamed, just as Dani’s anguished cry overlapped his own. She jerked in an erratic, convulsive dance as several of the rounds struck her, then she crumpled to the floor, laying in a sprawled, motionless heap.
“You son of a bitch,” Andrew howled at Prendick, groping at the body of the truck and kicking vainly with his feet as he struggled to rise. Again and again, his foot failed him and he collapsed. “You son of a bitch!”
Prendick smiled as he turned away from Dani and approached the truck. “I’ve done my duty at this outpost,” he said to Andrew. “Just like I’m doing it now.”
“Duty? Thomas O’Malley is dead because of you. Lieutenant Carter’s dead. All of the soldiers in Alpha squadron, everyone who was stationed here, they’re all dead now because of what you. That’s your duty?”
“The United States government expects results, Mister Braddock,” Prendick replied coldly when he stepped around the front fender. Shouldering the rifle, he took aim at Andrew’s face. “A return on their investment. Lieutenant Carter wasn’t prepared to give that to them. Nor, as it turns out, was Dr. Moore. But their failings—their weaknesses, Mister Braddock—are not my own, I assure you. I am unafraid to embrace risk in the name of duty, to suffer necessary casualties as a result of those responsibilities.”
The headlamps of a truck facing them, less than twenty feet away, abruptly snapped on, pinning Andrew and Prendick in a sudden, broad swath of bright light.
“What the—?” Prendick turned as Andrew squinted against the blinding glare, trying to shield his eyes with his hand. He heard the growl of the engine revving, the squall of its thickly treaded tires against the garage floor. Like a Rottweiler turned loose from its leash to lunge at a would-be intruder, the enormous vehicle plowed forward.
Andrew had less than a second to scrabble backwards in frantic alarm, ducking beneath the truck behind him. Flat on his belly, he clapped his hands over his head, his frightened cry drowned out by the roar of M-923 five-ton cargo truck’s diesel engine as it slammed into the one above him. When one truck’s massive bumper plowed headlong into the other’s broad, steel-plated flank—mashing Prendick like so much peanut butter in a sandwich between them—it sounded like the eruption of some great and terrible volcano, a caldera of epic and catastrophic proportions that had lain dormant for millennia, its inner stew of magma and searing gases released in a sudden, apocalyptic explosion. The floor beneath Andrew shuddered violently; a sharp blast of wind from the point of impact buffeted him and the screech of metal against metal, twisting, warping, bending, snapping, ripped through the air. The force was enough to shove the truck over Andrew’s head sideways a good three feet, and after a long moment in which he huddled against the floor, shaking and shaken, he lifted his head, wide-eyed and breathless, to find himself blinking at the scorched, stinking treads of the other truck’s left front tire. It had come to a stop less than two inches from Andrew’s head.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
With a hissing spatter, antifreeze began dribbling down in a frothy, steaming puddle from the truck’s splintered radiator. Nearby, another fluid began peppering down, slowly at first, then dripping more steadily—oil. He became dimly aware of a loud, droning BLAT; the truck horn. It rang out incessantly, as if someone had mashed their hand onto it and held it fast.
Moving slowly, keeping his teeth clenched as molten agony speared through his leg with every jostling movement of his shattered ankle, Andrew crawled out from beneath the truck. By the time he cleared the wreckage, the puddles of engine fluid had widened in broad circumferences, making him slip and slop for clumsy purchase against the slick floor.
“Dani,” he called out, his voice hoarse and warbling. With a grunt, he pawed at the step leading up to the driver’s side door, hauling himself up. Resting his weight on his uninjured leg, he pulled with all of his might, catching the side view mirror and door handle to support himself as he stood.
“Dani,” he gasped again, slapping at the door. The horn hadn’t stopped honking, which meant whoever was behind the wheel had slumped across it, either injured or worse. And because there was no other whoever in the garage to have been driving, that meant Dani had somehow managed to get into the cab and run Prendick down.
Groaning, he hooked his fingertips into the window frame and tried to drag himself upright enough to look inside. “Dani,” he pleaded, hitting the window now, leaving palm prints smeared against the glass in blood, antifreeze and grease. “Dani, open up. Can…can you…?”
When he fell, he fell hard, losing both his grip and tenuous footing simultaneously and crashing back to the floor. He barked his chin first on the fender, then again on the steel step, then crumpled into a heap beside the right front tire. His mind slipped again into a murky haze of pain-induced semi-lucidity, and when he heard the screech of door hinges from the opposite side of the truck cab, Alice’s voice crying out his name, frightened and tearful, he thought he was dreaming.
“Andrew!”
He came to being shaken, small hands clutching at his shoulders. His vision swam into bleary view, Alice’s face, her large eyes standing out in stark contrast to her alabaster skin and dark hair, which clung to her forehead and cheeks in messy, blood-smeared tangles.
“Andrew,” she pleaded, her voice choked and strained. Tears spattered in warm, wet droplets from her eyelashes and cheeks against his face.
“Alice?” he croaked. Not right, he thought, dazed. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be here. You’re supposed to be gone. Long gone. You and your dad both.
“Andrew, please,” she pleaded, coiling her fingers in his shirt and tugging frantically. “I’m scared. Daddy’s hurt. He won’t wake up. Please.”
He felt his mind fade again, his eyelids droop, but when Alice shook him, it startled him awake again, and with a grunt, he shoved his elbows beneath him and sat up.
“Help me,” he groaned. She was a child, half his height and probably no more than a quarter of his weight, but she did much of the work and bore most of the brunt as he hobbled clumsily upright again. The moment he tried to step down onto his maimed foot, he nearly toppled again, and had to balance himself unsteadily between the truck and Alice until the pain subsided.
Beyond the crumpled front end of the truck, which looked like the lips of a menacing dog turned back in a snarl, he saw Prendick pinned at the midriff, his legs trapped beneath the mangled grill, his upper torso folded over the hood. Face-down, arms outstretched as if embracing the truck, he lay motionless, his uniform soaked with blood.
Jesus, Andrew thought. “Where’s your dad?” he asked Alice.
“In the truck,” she said. “He won’t wake up.”
Prendick had dropped his rifle when he’d been struck, and Alice brought it to Andrew so he could use the stock as a crutch. With Alice’s help, he managed to wrestle the door open and looked up into the cab. Moore slumped forward in the driver’s seat, his head turned to the side so he faced Andrew, his cheek mashed against the steering wheel. When Andrew managed to shove him back into the seat, the horn at last fell silent. Even without a medical degree, Andrew could see Moore was in rough shape. His nose had been broken, a swollen, misshapen mess. His lips were busted, his scalp
lacerated, his face and shirt soaked with blood.
“We have to get him out,” Alice whimpered, tugging at Andrew’s arm, pleading.
How? Andrew thought, at a dismayed loss. The dash had collapsed around the steering column, trapping Moore’s legs. “I thought you left,” he said to Alice. “I thought your dad…he was going to get you out of here.”
“The door closed,” Alice said. “Daddy got it open but then it rolled shut before we could get out.”
With another pained grunt, Andrew grabbed the door and muffler stack pipe, hoisting himself on his good leg up onto the step again. “Moore,” he said, keeping one hand on the frame to keep his balance and using the other to reach beneath the shelf of Moore’s chin, fumbling for a pulse. “Dr. Moore? Can you hear me?”
Moore didn’t answer, but beneath Andrew’s fingertips, he felt a faint, thready vibration. Moore uttered a sigh, a moist, rattling, laborious sound. The steering wheel was big, raised enough so when he’d crashed forward at the impact, he’d caught it against his face and upper chest, probably crushing ribs.
“He’s hurt,” Alice moaned and Andrew glanced down at her. There would be no sparing her from this, no hiding or disguising it. No sheltering her.
Because I’m not going to be able to get him out of here, Andrew thought. Not without a hacksaw to cut his legs off at the knees.
“Listen to me.” Biting back a pained gasp of his own, he stepped down from the ruined cab of the truck. Sitting against the stool was not only a blessed relief to his wounded leg, but it put him down at the girl’s tearful eye level. “I need you to help me,” he said, cupping his hand against her cheek. “Can you do that, Alice?”
She nodded and he tried to smile, reassuring and calm. “Good girl. Do you remember the little bathroom where we made you a pallet to sleep? There’s a desk right beside it, Dani Santoro’s desk.” God, it pained him to say her name at the moment, because the last he’d seen, she’d fallen to the ground, having taken at least one shot from Prendick’s M16, if not more. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean.
“That’s where Daddy found the truck keys,” Alice said.
“That’s right.” Andrew nodded, still forcing bright nonchalance into his face and voice. It was working, he could see it in Alice’s face. He was acting calm, so her own anxiety was dissipating. “I need you to look around inside the drawers and see if you can find any more keys. These trucks are too smashed up to drive now. We’ll need to get another one.”
She glanced up at Moore, momentarily hesitant, then back at Andrew and nodded. “Okay.”
“Good girl,” Andrew said again, with a smile he didn’t feel.
He watched her scurry across the dark landscape of the garage, hands outstretched, her feet whispering against the smooth floor. Then he stood again, and, using the rifle to balance himself clumsily, leaned back into the cab.
“Moore,” he said, giving the older man’s shoulder a little shake. After two or three such attempts, Moore groaned, his eyes opening. His gaze was unfocused, pain-filled and dazed, settling in visible confusion on Andrew’s face.
“Alice,” he said in a warbling voice that dissolved into a sudden, sodden stream of coughs. Blood peppered his cheeks and chin with each forceful, painful exhalation, and in the aftermath of the fit, he slumped back against the seat, eyes closed, blood dribbling down his chin.
“She’s alright,” Andrew told him. “She’s not hurt.”
He didn’t know if Moore had passed out again or not, at least until the other man nodded once. “Good,” he murmured, a faint croak. His hand flopped out, groping weakly at the front of Andrew’s shirt. “Don’t…let her see me…like this.”
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Andrew said.
Moore peeled back one eyelid and regarded Andrew for a long, wheezing moment. “Son, you’re going to be doing good to…get yourself out of here.”
The corner of his mouth hooked in a smile and Andrew managed a hoarse laugh. “Don’t worry about me,” Moore said. “Just…get Alice out.” When Andrew started to protest, he shook his head. “My aorta is ruptured. I…can tell from my breathing…the pain in my chest. I’m bleeding to death. Do you understand?”
Stricken, Andrew stared at him.
“You…can’t stop it,” Moore continued with a grimace. “There’s nothing you can do. So promise me…please.” Again, his hand hooked against Andrew’s shirt, pulling the younger man near. “Take care of Alice,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Alright.” Andrew nodded, but it was too late. Moore’s fingers uncurled, limp and loosening, his hand drooping to dangle lifelessly in the open doorway. His breath rattled to a moist, strained halt and his eyelids drooped to a sleepy, eternal half-mast.
Oh, Jesus. Andrew stumbled back from the door, leaning against the barrel of the rifle, teetering unsteadily. He cut his eyes around, but there was no sign of Alice. He thought he could hear the soft sounds of rustling from somewhere across the room, in the direction of Dani’s desk.
Then he heard another rustling, this one much closer and when he turned, he realized that, contrary to popular misconception, Major Prendick was alive and well. Or if not well, then at least lifting his head from the wrinkled hood of the truck.
“Oh, Jesus,” Andrew said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Glaaaggghhh.”
Prendick uttered a horrible cawing sound, his mouth slack-jawed and agape, blood drooling down in thick streams over the outer edge of his bottom lip. His eyes punched into Andrew, round and wild, the cornea on his left side stained red with hemorrhage. His hands moved against the hood of the cargo truck, fingers splayed wide and outstretched, scrabbling and slapping at the crimped metal.
He’s still alive. Andrew shrank back in horror, hopping on his good leg as he snatched the M16 between his hands. Oh, God, how can he still be alive?
“Glllaaaaaggghhh,” Prendick squawked, his fingernails scraping the metal hood like a slate chalkboard: Screeeeeech! He began to shrug his shoulders and wriggle at the waist, twisting from side to side slowly at first, then more quickly, fervently, furiously.
He’s trying to get loose. Oh, Christ, he’s trying to get to me.
What had Dani had told him about firing the rifle?
Turn the safety off. There’s a switch on the side panel. Turn it to semi.
“Major Prendick, you…you shouldn’t be moving,” Andrew stammered helplessly, pawing at the rifle, thumbing the toggle switch to arm it. “You’re pretty messed up.”
Prendick uttered a warbling croak, then vomited blood, sending a thick torrent splashing against the smashed front end of the truck, down into the steaming, exposed engine components. Still, he thrashed against the grill, and Andrew heard a moist grinding sound as flesh and bones, meat and guts began to rind and rip.
“Stop,” he cried out, hoarsely, shouldering the rifle. His hands were shaking, his balance unsteady, and the barrel waggled erratically this way and that. “For God’s sake, Prendick, stop it!”
With a sickening, wet tearing sound and even more horrific POP as his spinal column snapped like a pencil bent too far too fast, Prendick wrenched himself free. Or, more specifically, the top half of him. His upper torso, head, shoulders and arms all suddenly toppled to the floor in front of Andrew, leaving the rest of him—everything from the navel up—pinned against the side of the cargo truck. Blood immediately spurted in grisly fountains from severed blood vessels, and a heaping pile of entrails left exposed from his torn abdominal cavity spilled out.
“Jesus Christ!” Andrew forgot himself in his shock and horror, and stepped down onto his maimed heel in recoil. Immediately, pain lanced through his entire right side, and with another cry, he collapsed to the floor. The gun slipped from his fingers. With a strained grimace, Andrew reached for it, arm outstretched. His fingertips brushed the butt and he crawled forward on his belly, mewling at fresh pain.
Just as he slapped his hand against the stock, Pre
ndick grabbed hold of the rifle by the barrel.
“Glagggh,” he said and Andrew screamed again because there was no way Prendick could still be alive, no way in hell Prendick could still be moving around, never mind grabbing for a goddamn gun, not cut in two like he was, with half of his guts on the garage floor behind him, the other half smeared out across the front end of the cargo truck.
Andrew stared in terrified shock down the short length of the muzzle and into Prendick’s face. His brows were furrowed, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a blood-stained smear. Again, he uttered that awful, cawing sound—“Glllaaaaagghh!”—then Andrew pulled the trigger.
He’d inadvertently set the gun to burst again, not semi, and a wild stream of bullets suddenly spewed from the barrel. The rounds ripped into Prendick, punching baseball-sized craters where his left eye had been, pulverizing his nose, shearing back the skin of his cheek and splintering teeth beneath. Andrew screamed the whole time, even as the gun jerked and shuddered in recoil, forcing him to lose his grasp. As his finger slipped from the trigger, the gun fell still and silent, leaving a thin film of acrid smoke lingering in the air between him and Prendick.
“Andrew,” he heard Alice cry out, frightened.
“It’s alright,” he called back, but his voice was strained and shrill, sounding anything but alright. But God, oh, man, the last thing he wanted was for Alice to come barreling around the corner and find the bisected remains of Mitchell Prendick sprawled on the floor, not to mention the body of her dead father still slumped behind the wheel of the truck.
“But you were shooting,” he heard her hiccup, a tremulous, tiny sound. “I heard you scream.”
“Everything’s okay.” He managed to sit up, get his knees beneath him, then flipped the safety back on and used the rifle to prop him as he stood. “Just stay where you are. Okay? I’m coming to you.”