911: The Complete Series

by Grace Hamilton

  The specialist zip-tied the last child and then moved over to a tangle of bikes on the road. Three of the bikes had the kind of trailers Parker had once associated with hipster dads and soccer moms in Spandex and expensive running kicks. The kind they’d pulled children or even pets with as they’d completed their work-outs in between guzzling Starbucks coffees and taking intense work conference calls on the latest iPhones.

  Now, he saw they were packed with supplies. Death sentences.

  “Lookee, lookee what we have here,” the specialist sang out.

  The enlisted man was a lanky ginger with a rash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He looked all of nineteen to Parker.

  “What do you have, Woodhaus?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Power bars, Gatorades, motherfucking pork and beans,” the E-4 answered.

  “Having a picnic?” the sergeant asked the dad. “Out for a family meal while everyone else is starving?”

  “No one is starving!” the woman yelled. “No one is starving!”

  “Sergeant,” the lieutenant said, “if the prisoner continues to violate my mandate to remain silent, you are authorized to use force.”

  “Quiet, Mandy,” the man said. He looked up at the officer. “This is all a misunderstanding.”

  Despite the grotesqueness of the situation, Parker almost smiled. Everyone with a college degree always thought they could talk their way out of having violated the law, maybe by quoting or misquoting the Constitution. Street criminals sulked, or offered to trade information, but even people like them who ought to know better still tried to talk their way out of trouble. He swallowed his mirth, though. This wasn’t a traffic stop. Lives hung in the balance here.

  “Save it,” the Sergeant said.

  “Jackpot!” Woodhaus called.

  Parker looked over. The enlisted man held up a Walther .380 he’d pulled from one of the bike trailers.

  “Parker,” Finn said. “Parker, please.”

  Parker gripped his weapon until his knuckles were white with tension. Next to him, Ava slowly lowered one knee and sank to the ground out of her crouch, her own weapon coming up. He swallowed. If Eli had still been in the National Guard, he would have been called up to serve. If he’d still been a sworn officer, he would have been doing security patrols.

  “Get him up,” the lieutenant snapped. “We don’t need to turn them over if we find firearms. We’re authorized to carry out summary sentencing right here.”

  The wife started screaming all over again, and the man shouted as the sergeant reached down and hauled him to his feet. The little boys started crying.

  “In accordance with the powers provided under FEMA Security Acts 720,” the lieutenant began reciting.

  “Parker!” Finn begged.

  “Screw this,” Ava said.

  Parker put a hand on her arm. “Do as I say. Do exactly as I say, understand?” He shook her, making sure he had her attention. “Do you understand, Ava?”

  She nodded, and he turned to Finn. “You have the shotgun,” he said. “You have to target the guy with the M249.” He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice; he sounded like a robot in his own ears.

  “Who?” Finn asked.

  “The motherfucker with the machine gun, Finn,” he said. She nodded. “I mean it. You have to control the kick and keep firing until he’s down, until he’s nothing but bloody rags, or we’re all dead,” he whispered. “Ava, shoot the officer, the guy with the handgun. Once he’s down, go for the redhead. I’m going to try for the sergeant because he’s closest to a hostage.” And they are hostages, he thought. Not prisoners, not detainees, but American hostages. “After that, I’ll also try for the redhead.” He swallowed. “Once we fire the first rounds, we come out of the bush and move toward them. They go to the ground we keep putting bullets into them, understand?”

  “Step away from the prisoner, Sergeant,” the lieutenant ordered.

  On the road, the sergeant had placed the father on his knees, facing the ditch on the far side. The lieutenant, his pistol at a sort of effete-looking port arms, stalked forward, finger already on the trigger.

  “Are you ready?” Parker whispered. When Ava and Finn had both nodded, he began his countdown. “Three, two, one!”

  Finn’s Mossberg went off in his ear. He’d sighted in on the sergeant standing next to the father as he counted down, and now he squeezed his trigger three times. The AR crack-crack-cracked and he saw the high-velocity rounds strike the man above the buttocks, right below the edge of his ballistic vest. The man grunted and twisted, stumbling backward.

  Unthinking, Parker, weapon stock snug in his shoulder, came through the bush. He snap-aimed and fired. The sergeant’s face disappeared in a starburst of pink mist. At his side, Ava fired, her trigger control less precise than his. But at less than twenty yards, the range was point-blank for the rifle. The lieutenant, short but bulldog-broad, staggered and went to one knee as three rounds struck his vest.

  He hadn’t been wearing any sort of protective plates in his vest, and the bullets hammered into his body. Blood squirted into the roadside dust, making a crimson-looking mud. Parker pivoted.

  The E-4 was now coming alive and reacting to the ambush, but the gunman was too late to save himself. He struggled to get his rifle off his shoulder as Parker put two .223 rounds into his thigh. The kid screamed, loud and long, as high-pitched as the woman had earlier, and dropped to the hard-packed dirt of the road.

  Parker shuffle-walked into the kill zone and shot him in the head, blowing his jaw from his face so that it hung shattered from the shreds of his skin. Whirling, he tried lining up a shot on the Humvee gunner, but held his fire. The man was bent backward over the rim of the turret, his arms spread wide as if in supplication. His chest looked like a dented beer can where Finn’s .12 gauge had slammed into him. He shot the man low in his torso anyway, angling the round slightly upwards to make sure it tumbled through his internal organs.

  He looked over at Ava then, with her rifle snugged tight into her shoulder; she stood over the officer, her muzzle less than a foot from his head. The man wasn’t moving. She fired three times, caving the front of his skull inward.

  It was over.

  Parker took his Spyderco out of the sheath on his belt and used the small thumb post to open it one-handed. He thrust it out handle-first to Finn. “Cut them free,” he said.

  She nodded and went to work, cutting the dad free and then moving to the others. The mom was crying, fighting to get her terror response under control after the chaotic seconds that had unfolded. She began profusely thanking Finn.

  “Where were you headed when they caught you?” he asked the man. “You took a big risk,” he added, thinking, I ought to know.

  “Canada,” the man answered. Regaining his feet, he offered Parker his hand as Ava watched. She was white-faced and strained-looking, but her fingers were well clear of the trigger. Parker ignored her, giving her the privacy of dealing with the kills in her own manner.

  “Canada?” Parked grunted. He didn’t know why, but he was surprised. “We’ve been in New Albany,” he told the man. “Official word is the border’s sealed. Our troops on one side, the UN Peacekeepers and NATO detachments on the other. Same with Mexico.”

  The man nodded. “Stories have filtered through about the UN and NATO mission troops doing what they can to help refugees cross over. If you can find a remote location and slip over, they’re running sanctuary programs in all the provinces.”

  “How many days you been on the road?” Parker asked.

  Behind him, Finn cut the rest of the family free and stepped back as the mother gathered her children into a hug. Half watching Finn, Parker noted that she seemed uncomfortable with all the displays of family affection.

  “This was only our second day,” he said. “Gee, sorry.” He laughed awkwardly and offered Parker his hand. “I’m Will Deckard.”

  Parker shook it. “I’m…” he paused. If the man were caught and interrogat
ed, he would give the three of them up to save his own family, no question, and if he used his own name, the Council would be able to pinpoint him in a specific direction. “I’m Jim Parker,” he finished. All the guy had to do was say ‘a black man and two twenty-something women,’ and they’d know anyway, he figured.

  “I’m obviously glad to meet you.” Will said, squeezing his hand as he shook it. “I’d hoped that by staying to back roads we could slip by patrols, but I guess I was wrong.”

  Parker shook his head. “You need to travel overland, maybe only at night. Since the Event, I’ve only seen a handful of aircraft in the air, and none of the FEMA troops I’ve run into seem to have been issued night-vision gear.”

  The man looked crestfallen. “Yeah,” he said. “I made a fatal mistake. If it hadn’t been for you…”

  “We owe you our lives,” the wife added, interrupting her husband.

  Parker nodded, and caught Ava’s eye and nodded again. She walked over and began inspecting the Humvee. “We’ll divvy up the gear and weapons here,” he said. “See if the soldiers had field packs stored in the back of the Humvee; if they did, you can put your food in those. We need to move, soon as possible,” he added. “A single Humvee is usually recon for a larger patrol. These guys don’t call in, someone’s going to come looking for them.”

  “Hey, Parker,” Ava called from over by the Humvee. “What are these?” She held up two OD green canisters roughly the size of Coke cans.

  “Smoke grenades,” he answered. He turned to Will. “Get your family moving; we’re doing the same.”

  The man nodded, and the little group began looting the dead. It was a gruesome and grisly task. Ava had found the field packs and handed them over to the couple along with the Beretta and a couple hunting knives. What little food and water they found was waved off, with Will telling them they had enough. Parker didn’t argue, and they quickly split it up, Parker and Ava grabbing two of the packs they’d found in the back of the Humvee to put everything in. By the end, Parker, Ava, and Finn wore modular lightweight load-carrying equipment suspenders or MOLLE as they were called by the military, which allowed them to carry spare magazines and other items in readily accessible pouches. They’d also swapped out their weapons for the ones the soldiers carried.

  Parker noted that the only grenades were either smoke for signaling or CS gas. There were quite a few of them, too. They took them as well as the men’s protective masks. He’d finished sliding a second 100 round drum for the M249 into his backpack when the radio burst to life inside the Humvee.

  “Tango 1-3, this is Tango 1-1; radio check.”

  In Parker’s mind, a stopwatch began counting down. Leaving the vehicle as Tango 1-1 repeated its comm check, he went over to where the rest of the group, his people and the family, were huddled together in conversation. He looked at the five members of the Deckard family. They were scared; they had every right to be.

  “We have to get moving,” he said. “Once these guys don’t answer back, someone is going to come looking.” He handed hard copies of area maps he’d taken from the Humvee to the father. “Take these,” he said. “Try and cut through hard terrain. These guys are pretty much sticking to the roads, so it’ll be your best chance.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Will said. His voice almost broke, but he forced back any extra emotion he might have been tempted to show. “I’m not going to lie,” he told Parker, “I was in IT before this.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “Talk about useless jobs now. Anyway, I don’t know anything about stuff like this.” His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. “I guess what I’m saying is that I could use your help getting my family to safety if you’re willing to give it.” He held out his hand, indicating his wife and daughter and the twins. “We could use your help.”

  Parker swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have family of my own to reach.”

  Will nodded. “I get it.”

  “Look,” Parker said, “If you can find a place to lay low until dark, then wait. No matter what. move slow, and stay off the roads. Don’t try to cross rivers, especially at interstate bridges. Follow them upstream and you’ll be more or less heading north. It’ll take longer—only walking takes longer than biking—but it’s worth it if you get there alive.”

  Will nodded.

  Then Parker heard the trucks approaching.

  17

  “Goddamnit!” Parker swore. Turning to Will, he gestured emphatically to the bushes. “Go, go, go!”

  They didn’t need to be told twice before the entire family moved fast, disappearing into the trees and bushes off the side of the road.

  “National Lampoon’s Vacation takes on a whole new meaning,” Ava commented.

  “Your humor is becoming incessantly dark,” Finn pointed out. Ava shrugged.

  Parker looked to the curve in the road ahead of them, hearing the approaching engines getting louder. He thought about the family thrashing through the bush, only able to move as fast as the two young children could. He thought about how his own daughter needed him.

  “Goddamn…” he said to himself.

  “Let’s go, Parker,” Finn urged.

  Parker turned to them. “Go,” he said. “Get to the boat; I’ll catch up to you.”

  “What the hell do you mean, you’ll ‘catch up,’” Ava demanded. “What are you doing?”

  The approaching engines were getting louder. Parker gestured for them to hurry. “I’m going to slow them down,” he said. “We need to give the family time to get away.”

  “We all need to go now,” Ava argued.

  “I’ll meet you at the river!” Parker shouted at them. “Finn take her!”

  Finn met his eyes in acknowledgement, and then she pulled at Ava’s sleeve. The two girls left the road as Parker turned. Whatever size truck was approaching, he realized, it was big. The engine noise emitted a deafening cacophony as it approached. Taking a smoke grenade out and setting it next to him, Parker took a knee on the side of the road and lifted the M249.

  A quick burst through the windshield, he figured. Kill the driver and stall the convoy long enough to pop smoke and haul ass. If there’s a turret gunner, he goes first, and then the driver.

  Seventy yards away, the noise of the approaching vehicle, or vehicles, he thought now, reached a peak and Parker sighted in, forming a good cheek weld with the buttstock. His finger curled around the smooth metal curve of the trigger and he took up the slack.

  A Stryker armored fighting vehicle rolled around the corner less than a mile away, traveling at a snail’s pace. The .30 autocannon on top of the 18-ton metal beast of a vehicle pivoted as the gunner scanned the area from the safety of his remote targeting apparatus.

  “Oh, shit,” Parker muttered.

  He let the M249 drop to the end of its harness and scooped up the smoke grenade. He yanked the pin free even as he turned and began running. The soda-can size grenade bounced behind him and gray smoke billowed out. He heard servos whine as the Remote Weapon System pivoted and the M2 heavy machine gun behind him began tracking in his direction.

  He wasn’t going to beat the thermal optics of the Stryker, and individual body armor was completely ineffective against such a large caliber weapon. His only hope was the defilade of the ditch running alongside the road.

  Throwing himself forward, he slid into the ditch and ducked beneath the level of the road. “Dammit all to hell!” he yelled at himself.

  The .30 caliber machine gun opened up. It fired slowly compared to the M249, coughing out in a thunk-thunk-thunk of a rhythm as Parker began low-crawling along the ditch, rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. Geysers of dirt erupted next to him and bullets knifed the air, displacing air like miniature jet planes.

  On the road, the area had grown heavy with smoke, cutting visibility. Parker knew the thermal images could see through smoke, but he hoped the defilade created by the ditch would screen him long enough for him to pull off some misdirection.

  The skin on his e
lbows scraped off and began weeping blood as he crawled forward, moving as fast as he dared. He crawled back toward the armored vehicle, figuring the crew would expect him to make a run for the woods from the terrifying piece of machinery. He knew from discussions with Eli that the thermal imager his pursuers carried had a range out to almost eight thousand feet, so he couldn’t hide for long and he couldn’t run.

  Sweat drenched his body and, in a few more moments, he was blinded, enveloped in his own smoke. The RWS .30 cal. couldn’t engage targets within the sphere of range of its inability to rotate downwards, creating a ‘dead area’ in close proximity to the vehicle. If they wanted to get him, Parker knew, they’d either have to break contact and reverse to range, or dismount infantry would need to get out and come get him. Those men would be operating without the benefit of the advanced imaging optics, however.

  He couldn’t see the Stryker anymore, as the smoke was too thick, but the sound of the RWS tracking for him was clear enough. He crawled further forward. The grenade discharged smoke for anywhere from fifty to ninety seconds before it ran out. When that happened, the smoke began dissipating but, by design, this was a slow process, even in an open area. With trees lining both sides of the road, he knew he had some time.

  Putting his head down, he continued crawling.

  Thirty meters from where he’d thrown the grenade, the smoke thinned out enough for Parker to try to set up his next move, whatever that was going to be. Behind him, he heard the transmission shift as the vehicle operator threw it in gear and began reversing out of the smoke.

  If he could make the river, he could reduce his heat signature and perhaps slip away downstream, breaking contact. But it was too far to sprint; the gunner would cut him down with little difficulty even as he stumbled, blind from the smoke screen.

  He cast about for more options, growing desperate as he rounded a curve in the dirt road and realized they were on an access road leading from the interstate to the river. On the highway, he saw an abandoned gas station with a service bay across from several one-story houses with their windows broken out.