by B. C. Tweedt
The rain patted his face again, waking him and prickling the hair on his arms with its cold.
“Greyson!”
“Shhh!”
He walked further away and his friends gathered at the chopper’s doors, watching him in silence. Greyson listened to the beeping growing fainter with each step that brought him further into the storm. He heard something. He’d heard the exact sound before, while on the mountain with Kit. Helicopters.
WHHHHHIIIIIR!
He jumped and spun around as the ship’s missile launchers cranked into action.
The metal box whirred to face the clouds, and a panel zipped open from the top, revealing the tips of missiles Greyson’s size.
WHHHOOOOOOSHHHHHHHHH!
WHHHOOOOOOSHHHHHHHHH!
WHHHOOOOOOSHHHHHHHHH!
Greyson fell to the ground at the sheer noise and intense heat, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the missiles as they erupted with spouts of fire, burning into the sky. They streaked, louder and faster than he could imagine, through the rain like a space shuttle launching into the atmosphere. The heat burned into the rain, evaporating it in trails darting for the underside of the clouds.
The three missiles struck the clouds and were enveloped in their mist, as if sucked into pudding. In an instant they were gone, leaving only their smoke trails behind.
Greyson knelt on the cold metal and gazed with open mouth at the spectacle, struck speechless by the missiles’ power.
And then thunder struck, sending red and orange lights soaking through the clouds with deep drum beats. There were three thunderous strikes in quick succession.
Greyson rose to his feet as the red light grew brighter, as if the clouds themselves were lighting on fire. And then the clouds spat fire in three bursts.
The kids gasped as fiery metal rained from the sky, into the ocean below like a fireworks show gone out of control. Huge chunks of debris spiraled down and Greyson recognized it. Falling through the clouds were the blades of a helicopter with only a jagged piece of fuselage, still spinning and leaving behind a trail of black smoke and ash.
The destroyed helicopters splashed into the rolling waves – their coffins. There had been people in them. Soldiers or rescuers. Killed before they could be heroes.
Greyson seethed in anger. He had been sitting, getting a massage while the terrorists took control.
He swung around, grimacing and limping as he hobbled toward the superstructure of higher floors and towers at the middle of the ship. “Stay here!” he shouted at Sydney as she jumped from the helicopter.
“What are you doing?” Sydney asked.
“They’re too slow. They need help. You all stay here. Try to radio for help.”
His muscles were seizing up and the adrenaline was wearing off, revealing his pain again. He knew he was most likely dehydrated, so he stopped, took off his shirt, and wrung the shirt over his mouth, sending a stream of rainwater onto his tongue – the trick he’d used throughout the journey.
Jarryd leaned down to Sydney, his eyes on Greyson’s battered body. “I think we should do what he says.”
Greyson held the bunched-up shirt out to her. When she refused, he put the half-ripped shirt back on and shrugged.
Sydney shook her head. “I’m tired of trying to stop you.”
“Good. But you’re not going with.”
“I am to.”
“No! I-I need you…here. Wait for me here.” He paused, almost begging. “Please.”
He couldn’t lose her.
Her eyes narrowed at him, but they gave in. “I don’t like being left behind.”
“I don’t care. You can’t come with. Not this time.”
Sydney, hurt and cowering, whispered back. “You blame me, don’t you?”
Greyson sighed, obviously trying to hold in whatever else was trying to come out. Memories were forcing him to watch again as he leapt after Sydney, leaving behind the bomb. He had pulled her to the riverbank and watched the explosion, holding in his arms what he had traded. The explosion had etched itself in his mind – a permanent scar.
She had held him back. He couldn’t let her do it again.
“I had the choice. I blame myself. And I can’t fail again,” he looked at the faint outlines of the sinking American Dream. But then he glanced at the helicopter, where Avery leaned out, watching them. Avery. They’d saved her. She was only one – but one was better than none. “We have to protect her. They wanted her, so we do, too.” He gave Sydney one last look. “Please, stay.”
With that, he jerked around, ran to the first steel door, and opened it with a creak. The hallway was long, narrow, and rocking back and forth with the waves, but the first thing he saw was the dead bodies. There were sailors, dressed in all white, terrorists dressed as civilians with orange life vests, and soldiers in blue and grey digital camouflage.
Greyson took a deep breath and turned toward Sydney and the helicopter. She glared at him and then glanced away. He didn’t give her any indication of his fear, but it was cresting in shivers as the rain trailed down his neck and back.
He didn’t know where to go, but he lunged into the hall.
Just follow the dead bodies…
Chapter 66
As Avery, Nick, and Sydney argued in the cockpit, fiddling with the electronic controls, Jarryd put his feet up and listened to the radio static they had achieved so far. His brain would prompt him to do things – such as offer his help or to keep an eye out for the bad guys – but his body would reject the promptings with excuse after excuse. He deserved a little break; he’d saved them all with his Jet-Ski skills. Or should he abbreviate them to “Jet-Skeels”? He liked to abbreve things and he liked this one especially. He’d have to use it later when he told the story – if they let him tell the story to the world this time.
He sighed in frustration and closed his eyes, trying to drown out his brother’s annoying voice and the even more annoying radio crackle. The wind peppering the side of the copter with pellets of rain was a much more relaxing sound. The big waves that smashed up and over the sides of the ship sounded just like they were on a beach. Even the steady rocking left, right, left, right of the ship felt as if he were on a hammock. It all added up to a pretty decent time for a nap.
He felt himself drifting off to sleep – all his cares flitting away, the muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxing – until the voices stopped. Sydney and Avery’s voices. Nick’s voice.
There was only static.
Fear pulsed through his veins. His eyes popped open; he sat up; he leaned toward the windshield where the others sat stiff and motionless, staring straight ahead. Bouncing lights came from both sides of the superstructure. Men were coming.
“What do we do?” Avery asked frantically.
“Do you guys know how to fly this thing?” Sydney asked.
Nick and Jarryd shook their heads.
The flashlights grew brighter.
“Hide!”
But they didn’t have time to hide.
Before they could even duck their heads, the drone came swooping down, past their windshield, as if surfing on air. It made a wide arc to the left, past the corner and hovered to a halt. The flashlights lit the drone’s armor with a yellow hue as its gun snapped in their direction.
RATATATATATATATATAT!
The flashlights’ beams went crazy, flitting toward the sky before jostling to the ground, no longer moving.
“Kill them!”
The kids’ gaze jerked to the right as two more men with orange life vests came from the right, carrying automatic rifles. They managed to raise their guns at the helicopter before the drone buzzed at them at high speeds, firing a rain of bullets.
RATATATATATATATATAT!
The men toppled to the deck without firing a shot. Their guns clattered as they fell, and the drone simply swooped over them as if to check for more enemies. But there weren’t any more.
It hovered back and forth, undecided for a few moments as the kids tr
ied to breathe their hearts back to normalcy. Jarryd’s mouth still hung open wide, his big front teeth pointed right at the drone as it approached their windshield. It came so close that they could see the 714-M and the red light inside its black band.
Its gun swiveled toward Jarryd.
Suddenly remembering, Jarryd made his beaver-face.
The drone’s light turned green, and as if it had decided all was safe, it lifted into the sky.
“Wallaby d’ahned,” Avery exclaimed with a huff.
Sydney let out a long sigh and slumped into the pilot’s chair as Nick turned to Jarryd, astonished. “That thing just killed those guys. In, like, a second.”
“Yeah,” Jarryd said matter-of-factly. “I think we should keep it around.”
Nick nodded to himself until an idea made him smile. “So…it’s a friend that watches over us, right?”
Jarryd nodded as if pushing for more.
“Then I think I have a name for it.”
Jarryd perked up. “The Drone-Ranger? The Glazed Dronut? Drone-ton Abbey?”
Nick’s face said you’re an idiot.
“No? Then what, genius?”
Nick smiled and shrugged. “Liam.”
-------------
Greyson stepped over a body’s arm and then its torso, trying to move as quickly as he could without making a sound.
He could hear them – the echoes, vibrating through the pipes that ran the length of the metal corridor. The gunshots rang out like pans dropping to the floor, shouts and screams like children stuck inside a locked car in the summer. The echoes enveloped him from every angle.
With each corpse he encountered, a lump rose higher in his throat. The bodies – contorted, bleeding – made him sick to his stomach. He hated looking at them, but he had to, lest he trip over one and land on another – staring at the blank face of a dead man. The nausea rose higher and he began to panic. His face flushed and he let out a whimper.
Concentrate on finding the voices.
His eyes settled on the next corpse. A young man – clean-shaven, wearing camouflage and holding onto his rifle. His legs were curled toward his chest, almost as if he were sleeping. And his eyes were open. Green eyes – like his own.
Suddenly woozy, he steadied himself against a pipe, shutting out the light from his eyes. His trembling hand wiped at his eyelids, brushing away the fear.
Shoulders back. Chin up. Eyes forward.
He continued on, down another hall, up another bullet-ridden stairway, and the gunshots grew louder – ominous with each clanging echo.
His foot hit something, and before he knew it, he’d tumbled on top of a corpse. Panicked, he pushed off the man’s abdomen to his elbows, scrambled to find footing, but stopped. He held himself up on his elbows, on top of the dead soldier. His eyes had latched onto something and his mind’s gears were churning.
Finally working past his reluctance, Greyson reached and snatched what he had, up until now, resisted using. With a groan, he pushed off the corpse and rose up with the pistol in hand. He hated the heaviness of it. In his mind, heavy things were more dangerous, capable of more harm.
But a gun would have to do. He was out of slingshot ammunition and needed something. Eventually he would have to grow up and use a man’s weapon. What am I so afraid of? Killing someone? It wouldn’t be the first time.
He licked his dry lips and nodded reassuringly to himself as he continued hobbling down the hall with the gun at his side. The noises grew louder and louder. He grimaced as he ascended another flight of stairs that was riddled with bullet holes and discovered that he had reached the top floor. No more stairs. And the voices were loud and clear. Angry. Threatening.
This is it.
But none of the voices were Grover’s or Forge’s. Perhaps it was Diablo, but that wasn’t likely.
Greyson backed against the wall and shimmied to the corner. The voices and gunfire were just down the next hallway. What would he see? Would he have to shoot? Could he pull the trigger if he had to?
He held the gun in front of him and took a deep breath.
Okay. On three.
He blinked slowly.
One.
The terrorists were cursing, firing, and cursing more.
Two.
He placed his finger against the trigger.
Three!
Chapter 67
Greyson swung around the corner, but a dark shape lunged from below, grabbing his arms and slamming him against the wall. He felt an ice-cold blade pressing against his Adam’s apple.
“Dumb kid!”
The soldier swung Greyson around and sheathed his blade in one of his body armor’s many pockets. It was Forge.
“Almost killed you.”
Greyson didn’t have time to say anything. Forge pulled him hard down the hall like he was being dragged to the principal’s office. As he stumbled beside Forge, Greyson saw Diablo, Grover, and two soldiers in blue camouflage kneeling by a metal doorway that shook as bullets rang against it. The sound was near deafening and Greyson cringed as he was thrown to the ground.
“Stay close and don’t move!” Forge yelled as he joined the others on either side of the door.
Greyson read the door sign. Bridge. Fire Control.
And then he understood. It was a standoff. The terrorists had the weapons’ systems and the bridge under control on the other side of the door. Maybe even hostages. Grover and the rest were debating on how to take it back.
“Diablo – could you get a shot from outside?”
The skull-masked man spoke – his voice as scary as his face. “Only from the bird.”
Grover turned to face the ship’s soldiers. “Is there another entrance?”
“Yes, on the opposite side, but it’s heavily guarded. Windows face the bow, but they’re shatterproof.”
“Nothing Forge can’t take care of.”
Forge nodded. “I’ll need a few minutes.”
“They may already have control!”
Greyson had to interrupt. “They shot down three helicopters. I – I think they have control…already.”
The soldiers turned to him. Greyson nodded convincingly.
Grover stared a hole into him, but he turned back to the others. “The EMP grenades must have had no effect. We’re going in and we’re going in hard. Prep gas and flash bangs. And get that drone around to paint the windows. It’ll give them something else to think about.”
The soldiers went into a flurry of preparation. Canisters popped off of belts, ammunition was checked and loaded, goggles were lowered, and Forge typed at his wrist pad. It took a moment for Greyson to realize what Grover had meant.
“Wait. The drone is leaving my friends? What if…?”
Forge shoved him farther away. “Our lives – their lives – are secondary. Stay here. Keep that gun on the doorway. If someone other than us comes out…”
Greyson gave a tiny nod. Forge accepted it and rejoined the others. They stacked at the door, crouched and ready.
Our lives are secondary. Greyson let it sink in.
Grover’s left hand was on the door’s lever – his other wrapped around some sort of cylindrical grenade. He spoke in a husky whisper. “We don’t know who’s friendly. Let God sort them out.”
Putting his back harder against the metal as if he could get farther away, deeper into the wall for safety, Greyson remembered his agreement and pointed the gun at the doorway.
He aimed down the handgun’s iron sights, but the sights shook and wobbled. It was heavy, and his veins pumped with adrenaline. He added a second hand to the grip to steady it, but it wasn’t enough.
Down the wavering sights, he watched as Grover jerked the door open just a foot. In the same motion, Forge rolled in a canister and Diablo underhanded another. Grover closed the door as bullets blasted sparks over the opening.
Shouts rang out from inside, followed by two sharp bangs that reverberated through the floor and in Greyson’s chest.
The so
ldier’s dropped gas masks over their goggles.
Greyson felt his heart thumping against his ribs. He licked his lips and tried to keep his chin from wavering. They were headed into a barrage of bullets. He didn’t want his friends to die.
Another door opening and more grenades. The door closed.
The soldiers’ feet inched forward. The sound of the drone’s gunfire sang out loudly, joining in with the drumbeats of the bangs and drowning out the chorus of voices inside.
Greyson couldn’t even hear his staggered breaths as Grover opened the door and disappeared into the smoke.
Chapter 68
The song called to him. It was in a mighty crescendo – a climax so loud and grand he couldn’t resist. He had to see it.
Greyson found himself on his feet, inching to the doorway toward the hellish noise. The soldiers were already lost in the smoke inside. Taking a few deep breaths, he held the gun tight and fought his fear.
Pay your debt. Your life is secondary. Pay it with your life if you have to. I dare you.
Greyson waited for a pause in the barrage and then spun inside; he hobbled low and fast, sliding to a stop and putting a shoulder into a metal panel near the center of the large room. He was instantly surrounded by chaos.
The drone’s firing against the glass set a clanging rhythm like crashing cymbals, the intermittent gunfire blasted like trumpets, and more grenades added a resounding bass that struck his eardrums numb. Suddenly a close explosion sent a violent ring that filled every sound with a hollow dullness – but the sights became the new sounds.
Time slowed as he took in the spectacle like a concert’s final act. Smoke poured out like clouds, colored with flashes of yellow and red as muzzle flashes fired from underneath – left, right, far, and near. Bodies shifted from within the clouds, dipping and floating like dancers.
He rose to his knees – almost in a trance. He wanted to be a part of it, but he didn’t know how. This was an adult production.
More bangs sent metal debris through the room. Showers of sparks bounced and popped. Bodies danced, like puppets strung in the air, spinning, flinging to the ground.