by Rob Lopez
Walt lay holding his rifle, his face an unhealthy pallor. “Are you ready?” Rick asked him.
“I’m not going to make it,” murmured Walt. “You go. I’ll cover you from here as best I can.”
“Bullshit. We’re getting you out of here.” Turning to the others, he said, “We’re going to crawl to those ruins.”
“Good place for a last stand,” observed Scott.
“There’ll be no last stand,” said Rick curtly. “We keep moving and that’s that.”
With no further way north, and with ISIS coming up from the south, Rick was determined to push south-west towards Aleppo. Al Bab was closer, but held by the same militants trying to kill them now. He wasn’t sure he could expect better treatment by the Syrian government forces in Aleppo, but he knew the Russians were there too, and being interned by them was better than being captured by militias who were only loyal to the nearest warlord. At least Walt would get medical treatment, and if that was the only thing he could salvage from this mission, then all well and good.
Rick took point, crawling out of the orchard and between the cotton plants. It was punishing work, crawling for hundreds of yards on the hard packed earth, and he knew it was harder still for Walt, but he had no solutions for that. He still hadn’t located the machine gun that was keeping them pinned, but if they weren’t out of here by the time the pickup returned, they were all screwed.
Hustling forward, he froze when he heard the sound of metal dragging over a stone. Ahead, the cotton plants waved as they were pushed aside. Rick sighted his rifle, and a youth with a black bandana appeared, hauling an AK47 on its sling. Rick fired two shots, exploding the youth’s face in a red cloud. The machine gun bullets immediately began probing his position, raining snowy cotton over him. Rick doubled his efforts, trying to get out of the beaten zone.
The ominous whistle of a mortar bomb forced his face into the dirt. The explosion nearby showered clods of earth in a wide radius. Rick turned to see if his team was okay. They were strung out in a line behind him, and with a wave of his hand he ordered them to scatter. Shuffling forward a few more feet, he froze again as the next bomb was lobbed over, the earth shaking beneath him.
If there was anything that infantrymen hated most, it was mortars. The horrible whistle and the random location of the impact made it difficult to anticipate, and there was no way to stop it. Rick lifted his head to see if he could locate it. It sounded close. A puff of dust from the ruins indicated it was firing from behind the broken walls, out of sight. At the same time he spotted the machine gun that was giving him so much trouble. It too was in the ruins, nestled in the gap between the blocks of a fallen pillar. The gunner spotted him and swiveled the weapon on its bipod, stitching up his position with ricocheting near misses. Rick tensed up, flinching with each crack that zipped by his ears. As soon as it paused, he slithered forward like a lizard, past the dead body of the militant. He could hear shouts in Arabic as the machine gunner called corrections to the mortar operator. He made a few more yards before the whistle came again. The round landed behind him, tearing apart the body of the militant and flinging limbs into the air.
Rick crawled faster as the bombs rained down on the field, panting like a dog as he exerted himself. Reaching the edge of the crops, he saw the ruins twenty yards away. The machine gunner, eyes wide, spotted him and swiveled his weapon towards him. Rick had his rifle ready, and he hosed down the gunner’s position with a long burst, hitting him in the head and chest and jerking him backwards out of sight. Jumping up and sprinting across the gap, Rick found the militant rolling on the ground. He emptied his magazine into him, just to make sure.
Behind the ruined wall and down some steps was a small amphitheater. Two militants manned a 60mm mortar. On seeing Rick, they reached for their AKs. Rick picked up the machine gun and, at close range, fired the weapon from the hip, unleashing a hail of bullets. When the box magazine clunked empty, the militants lay contorted and still.
Scott emerged from the field as Rick reloaded his rifle. In the distance, trailing a plume of dust, the pickup was returning with a fresh group of fighters. Without thinking further, Rick jumped down to the mortar and turned it around, pulling the pin from a mortar bomb and dropping it down the tube. There was a hollow whump, and the bomb launched, landing fifty yards in front of the vehicle. The pickup halted, and the militants in the back jumped out. Rick spun the dials on the mortar bipod to adjust the range and dropped another bomb down the tube. Before the militants could get clear, the bomb sailed down and impacted on the pickup, blowing it out and scattering their bodies.
There was a moment of utter silence, and Rick palmed his face with a groan. Scott reached his side. “You know?” he said, “we could have used that vehicle.”
Rick sagged back onto his haunches. “I know,” he said. “I was trying for a near miss.”
“Maybe you should have tried to hit it. You’d have missed, then.”
Rick glanced sideways at him. “You’re real helpful.”
“I aim to please. Unlike you.”
The remaining militants emerged from the field, running away, and Scott turned, firing snap shots at the fleeing figures. None of them dropped. “Now that’s how to miss,” said Scott ruefully.
Walt emerged from the crops, looking like he’d just swum the Atlantic. Kowalski was behind him, looking in even worse shape. There was no sign of Leroy or Jamie.
Rick ran back into the field, keeping low, heading for the plumes of dust that hovered over the blasted cotton. Scott’s rifle cracked, firing towards the orchard over Rick’s head. Rick dropped lower, calling out in a hissed voice for Leroy and Jamie.
He found them by a crater, their bodies covered in earth and cotton blossoms. Sliding onto his knees by Leroy, Rick turned him over. His clothes had been shredded by the blast, and blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth.
“Leroy!”
Leroy’s eyes were open, but he had difficulty focusing on Rick. His fingers flexed, as if he was trying to lift his arm, but it wouldn’t move. “Hey there,” he murmured.
Rick tore off Leroy’s body armor, frantically looking for wounds. “Rest easy, we’ll get you out of here.”
Leroy tried to chuckle, but his mouth was filling with blood. Spitting it out in a spray, he said, “Get home to your children,”
Rick lifted Leroy’s head to prevent him choking, but by the time he did that, Leroy’s eyes had rolled back. Rick pumped his chest to get his heart going again, but only succeeded in spraying more blood out from the shock-damaged lungs.
Jamie was easier to assess. His head had separated from his neck and lay a few feet away.
Rick quit pumping, defeated. Angry and frustrated, he closed Leroy’s eyes and held his hand over his friend’s face, trying to hold his own tears back.
*
Josh walked half a mile to the creek that ran through the suburb, carrying a five gallon plastic container. Water had ceased dripping from the faucets now, and Grandma was worried about their supplies running low.
“Get it from the creek,” she’d said, “but don’t drink it. We need to boil it first.”
Well, duh, thought Josh, feeling cocky again. Even he knew that. Squatting on the stones by the creek, he dipped his container in until it was full, lifting it up to see the particles swirling in the brown water. Even after boiling, he wasn’t sure he wanted to drink it. Grandma said she was going to revive a copper distiller left in the garage, stored there after Grandpa gave up his fantasy of making his own moonshine. Josh wasn’t sure how that would work, seeing as he assumed it was only for making alcohol.
Capping the container, he lifted it up, a little shocked by how much it now weighed. Well, there was no rush to get home. He’d never been that strong, and if he needed to rest on the way back, he could do so.
The creek ran through a wooded area that Josh remembered from when he was younger. Grandpa used to bring him down to fish – or at least pretend to fish, because they never caught
anything and Josh had never seen anything in the water. It was fun, though, and he could make-believe they were out in a real rural area, with bears and shit. It was harder to maintain the pretense these days, as developments had grown on the banks of the creek. New low-rise apartment blocks and parking lots lay nearby.
As Josh hauled his container home, a kid with a baseball bat came over from the blocks.
“Give me that water,” shouted the kid.
Josh glanced at him. The kid looked about ten years old, all puffed up and scared as he waved his bat.
“Get your own,” said Josh dismissively.
“I’m warning you,” said the kid, his voice rising in tone.
“Yeah, right,” said Josh. He wasn’t about to take some punk-ass kid all that seriously, especially one whose voice hadn’t broken yet.
It was a mistake. Walking away, Josh didn’t see the kid coming up behind him. The thwack of the bat across the side of his head took him by surprise. Stunned by the impact, he found himself on his knees, his head ringing. A series of blows rained down on his back, but none measured up to the first one that had him struggling to keep his balance, his vision blurred.
By the time he recovered, the kid was dragging the container back across the parking lot. A group of youths stood waiting near a block entrance, arms folded. Other, older faces peered out of windows. Nobody lifted a finger to do a thing about what they’d just witnessed.
Josh staggered away, still in shock. When he got home, there was pandemonium when Grandma saw the blood on the side of his head. Lizzy started to cry while Grandma sorted through drawers for some bandages, urging Josh to sit down in the kitchen.
Josh felt no pain, only dizziness. What he was really conscious of was a deep shame. He felt vulnerable and worthless, unable to stop even a ten year old kid from beating him up and stealing his stuff. He couldn’t believe it had happened.
The front door opened and Elena and Max entered the house, carrying a plastic bag of goods.
“We went to the store, Daisy,” called Elena. “They only let us have two items per person, but I got you some flour.”
She came into the kitchen and saw Grandma cleaning Josh’s wound.
“Oh my word! What happened?”
While Grandma explained, Max mooched around the kitchen, agitated. “They had cops outside the stores,” he said. “They frisked me and found the gun. Confiscated it. Told me I was lucky they didn’t arrest me for carrying a concealed weapon. Can you believe it?”
Elena helped Grandma with the bandage. “Josh, are you okay? Can you see my fingers clearly?”
Josh stared straight ahead, feeling removed from the scene.
“Is anybody listening to me?” said Max. “They took our gun. What are we supposed to do now?”
21
Lauren eyed the tunnel with foreboding. She’d followed the I-95 to Baltimore, but the tollway dipped beneath the harbor and she wasn’t sure she wanted to follow it anymore. It was pitch black and clogged with vehicles, and before she stopped, she thought she heard the echo of voices inside.
All was silent now, but she had the sense someone was waiting in there.
On either side of the tollway were rail yards, coal heaps and port warehouses. In the distance, a pall of smoke hung over the city. The wisdom of arriving at a big city in the middle of the crisis began to gnaw at her conscience.
The big problem was that she had no maps, so couldn’t plan her route well. The couple at the RV probably did have maps, and she realized too late that she should have asked if she could take a look at them. Until she reached North Carolina, she had no idea where she was off the interstate. Detours were an invitation to get lost.
She wasn’t going through the tunnel, though. That much was clear. She didn’t want to go through the city, either, but the approaching rumble of a vehicle with a throaty exhaust prompted her to make a decision. As she wheeled her bike towards the concrete barrier dividing the highway from the rail yard, a '69 Dodge Charger with tinted windows arrived at the toll booths and stopped, engine idling.
Lauren lifted the bike over the barrier and hastened across the tracks, glancing nervously back. The Dodge sat there, possibly contemplating the blocked passage to the tunnel, then it turned around and burbled back up the tollway.
Lauren had no particular reason to be cautious about it, but she was nevertheless glad to see it go. It conjured up images of Mad Max, and on the bicycle, she felt vulnerable. Other vehicles would undoubtedly have survived the EMP, and she wondered for how long it would be safe to travel on the major highways.
Not much longer, probably. She wanted to cover a lot more miles before she was forced off them.
The streets near the port showed all the signs of gentrification, with factories and brick warehouses converted to apartments. Old row houses had been cleaned up, and community corner stores converted into homes. She passed hipster cafes and art galleries, but most were closed. The smell of burning hovered in from downtown, plus the persistent crack of gunfire. Students and white collar workers sat out on the stoops, just as the poorer dock workers had done in the past, but there were no children running around. The faces appeared gloomy or apprehensive. Expensive cars sat uselessly on the roadsides, and transmission poles bore the evidence of fires where the transformers had blown. Lauren wasn’t sure how desperate people were yet, but she avoided places where she saw small groups congregated, turning down side streets until she was completely lost. The nature of the streets changed the further she progressed, old buildings replaced by apartment projects and new builds that nevertheless looked shabbier and dirtier. Grass grew more profusely on the sidewalks, with houses abandoned and boarded up. She’d reached the poorer areas of Baltimore, and still she couldn’t see any traffic signs to the I-95.
Turning onto a main street, she heard the distinctive exhaust of the Dodge, cruising slowly. She pulled over quickly, dismounting, and rolled the bike into an alley, hiding herself behind a pile of trash. The vehicle drove by, maintaining its leisurely pace. Lauren peered out to watch its progress, trying to shake off the feeling that she was being stalked.
She wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
Two black youths in hoodies jumped out at a corner, in front of the car. One, wielding a pistol, pumped five shots into the windshield. The vehicle slowed and the other youth ran round to the driver’s side, yanking open the door and pulling out the limp body of the driver. The youths jumped into the car, and the exhaust roared as they drove the Dodge away at speed, leaving the body of some ordinary looking middle aged white guy in a plaid shirt – not Mad Max, nor any other kind of road warrior.
“You is in the wrong place,” said a voice.
Lauren turned suddenly, seeing an elderly black guy behind the chain link fence of his yard. He scrutinized her with a mix of curiosity and fatalistic bemusement.
“Is there a right place?” she said.
“For white folk like you, anyplace outside the neighborhood is a right place. At least you got a choice.”
Lauren wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I’m trying to reach the I-95. Which direction is it from here?”
“You wanna go back that way, and quick.”
“I’ve just come from that direction. The tunnel’s blocked. I need to head south.”
“Then you wanna go downtown, but I wouldn’t. They be rioting there. Crazy people. And the cops are even crazier. Shoot you as soon as see you.”
“Have you witnessed that?” asked Lauren.
But the old man ignored her question. “They’re afraid,” he intoned. “These are the End Times. Prepare yourself and make your peace with God.”
Without another word, he turned around and shuffled back into his house. Lauren stared for a moment, conscious of her rapidly beating heart. The street was clear again, but she hesitated to venture out. Slowly, she reached to her pack, pulling out the lug wrench, its weight a comfort in her hand. Checking out every shadow, every doorway, she stepped out
and made her way along the shady side of the street. Cycling on the road made her too conspicuous, so she pushed the bike. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t want to pause, and certainly didn’t want to advertise that she had water, or anything else people might want.
Passing the body of the driver, she saw two police officers at an intersection. They hadn’t come to investigate the crime, though. White cops, they moved warily, turning circles as they walked. One wielded a shotgun, the other pushed a shopping cart with bottled water and cereal boxes. An overweight black woman harangued them as they walked away.
“Wotcha going do?” she yelled. “We need help here! We need assistance.”
The cops paid her no heed, intent on getting out with their rattling cargo.
“This is genocide,” screamed the woman. “You hear me? You leaving us to die.”
Lauren considered approaching the cops but realized they were bigger targets than she was. Hated in the neighborhood and unable to call for backup, they picked up the pace as a shot echoed in a nearby street. A dog barked, and the woman kept on shouting. Lauren detoured down a side street, determined to get as far away from any disturbances as possible.
Two blocks on, she witnessed two black guys dragging a young black woman down the street by her hair. The woman screamed and kicked, but the two guys, looking around warily with guns in their waistbands, were unwilling to let their prize escape their grasp. Faces in windows turned away, drawing blinds. Folks sat on stoops got up hastily and entered their houses, bolting the doors. A small child ran up the street, crying hysterically, trying to catch up with the men. The guys dragged the woman into a corner house with boarded windows and slammed the door in the child’s face.