“Open the gate!”
James and Eli darted to the metal bars that made up the barricade. As they tried pulling, Grant shouted at them. “Keep it closed, damn it! Ignore Sergeant Murphy! We can’t lose this line!”
Soldiers took a knee and aimed at the barricade. Some hurried into Humvees and up into the gunner station.
The truck gunners spit bullets into the crowd as they sprinted to the barricade.
“What are you doing? Open the gate!” Harper pleaded, watching the massacre unfold before her.
No one pushed the gate.
Harper could not believe what was happening. Finally, the gate barricade split as James pulled a large chunk of metal fencing back his way. Grant yanked at him, but it was too late. Droves of people spilled through the crack and forced their way past James. The soldiers on the ground dispersed to the edges of the bridge. Civilians brushed past them and down the other side of the bridge. Then the trucks came into view.
“Die.” Harper pulled the trigger. The M60 smacked against her shoulder with every massive bullet it slung from its barrel. In an upward line, the piercing projectiles danced up one of the truck’s hoods, ripped through the windshield, and shredded the gunner standing in the truck’s bed. The other five trucks directed their aim at the army. Utter chaos ensued as soldier and pedestrian melded together on the six-lane bridge. For a better tactical view, soldiers climbed up the sides of Humvees and fired their rifles at the attackers. Civilians ran by them like rushing water.
Harper ducked as a bullet hit her turret guard, leaving behind a white dent. She peeked her head up, pulled the trigger, and sent another line of bullets horizontally across all the trucks. The bullets ran straight across the windshield of one, cutting through the cab and hitting the turret gunner’s torso on the other side. Harper’s string of bullets continued across the next two trucks’ engines, hit someone in the cab of the following truck, and took out the gunner on the final truck. With short controlled bursts, the other soldiers laid down fire on the bulky vehicles as they rolled forward. A bullet snagged an engine at just the right spot and… BOOM!
A truck erupted into a ball of fire. Its frame shot ten feet up and crashed onto the bridge like a falling star. The next two trucks also exploded. Metal and bodies were tossed in all directions following a wave of heat. The final truck was set ablaze and steamrolled straight through the barricade. Before anyone could act, the flaming mass smashed into a parked Humvee. On fire, the truck driver screamed and fell out the door. He twisted a few times before falling to the concrete.
Fire, dismemberment, and cries of agony were all around. The night obstructed Harper’s vision. She couldn’t see her husband or son. She cried out, but there was no response. Shot, bleeding, and exhausted, people continued limping through the barricade. Finally, Harper spotted James huddled down at the upper corner of the barricade. She was about to duck out of the gunner station, when a rumbling growl filled the air. More trucks inbound. Harper took up the turret again and fired until the recoil made her arms go numb. Her shoulder pounded with pain, and the heat from the gun seared her skin. The trucks before her twisted and swerved to dodge the bullets, but dead bodies hindered their speed and maneuverability. Some of their drivers were even forced to stop and shoot.
Bullets broke glass, metal, and the enemy’s skin. Compared to the M60’s massive rounds, the insurgents’ puny vests didn’t stand a chance. Harper’s world became one of noise and bullets and death. It was only her and her targets. Any second could be her last, she knew, as countless bullets burrowed into the side of her Humvee and turret guard, but she did not relent. She would not let death have her. Her family, her soldiers, her country needed her. Like a strobe light, muzzle flashes lit up her hardened face with every shot. She felt alone in her battle, but her barrage of bullets was joined by others, and she knew that her allies were still with her.
Trucks veered into the side of the bridge, leaving long stripes of black paint on the bridge’s fence. Others reversed and jammed their wheels on the heaps of dead bodies. The cry of their engines and the sinister squish of the rubber against flesh sounded as they tried to remove themselves from the meaty piles. Every moment she watched, more bile clawed at Harper’s throat. Her turret put a quick end to the drivers.
Harper dropped four more trucks before her gun jammed. She slinked down into the gunner station as a volley of bullets pierced the Humvee’s back windshield and cut against her cheek. The Hummer thumped like a bass drum with every hit it took. Blood running down her jaw, Harper reached around to the front seat and fished out the pistol. She took a deep breath and burst out the door.
A stream of bullets chased her to a supply box, where she took cover. It was plastic. Without hesitation, Harper quickly dropped prone as bullets tore through the weak material and sent shards into the sky. Once it died down, she crawled on her forearms and knees over the dead soldiers and civilians around her. Stationed behind Humvees and crates, the army and National Guard fired back at the encroaching insurgents that had yet to pass the barrier in one piece. Harper didn’t see her husband over the mass of warm bloody bodies, but she kept on crawling.
“Sergeant Murphy,” someone whispered.
Harper tossed her head to and fro until she spotted the ginger. “Walker.”
The private was prone as well, tucked behind fellow dead soldiers and shivering. Harper headed his way, getting her arms soaked in sticky red puddles. “Hold on.”
Tears fell down his freckled cheeks. “I-I wanna go home.”
“You will,” Harper reassured him, making the mistake of rubbing drips of perspiration from his brow with her blood soaked forearm.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” He smiled sadly. “Without you, I’d--”
Bam!
A bullet hit Walker’s forehead, and his face smacked against the bridge. Harper twisted back to the insurgent climbing over the barricade on foot. He turned his AK-47 assault rifle to the sergeant, but Harper was quicker on the draw. After two pops, the man was dead on the ground. Another pair of insurgents entered her view. Three bullets later, they were dead next to their friend.
Harper bolted to her feet and ran to the upper corner. In a similar manner to running a tire obstacle course, Harper bounced between the bodies. “James! Eli!” she said in a loud whisper.
Next to her, a truck burst through the barricade. Harper dropped prone as the turret gunner twisted the gun and sent a spray of bullets across the dead bodies. The corpses bounced, and quick splashes of red erupted with every hit. Without tracers, the bullets were nearly impossible to track, but Harper learned their path as more holes exploded on the bodies yards from her. The truck headed her way. Resting on a dead man’s arm, Harper took aim with her pistol. She closed one eye and slid her finger over the trigger.
Bullets sparked against the truck’s hood. The turret gunner changed his focus to a small squadron of privates unloading their weapons behind a turned-over checkpoint table. Harper was ready to take the shot, but three more insurgents vaulted over the barricade and hunkered behind the truck. They shouted in a foreign tongue and kept their fire on the squadron of privates. They didn’t seem to have noticed her. But she knew that the moment she pulled the trigger, they would. Angry, Harper lowered her weapon and continued climbing to the barricade’s right corner. Her elbows and hands pressed hard against wet clothing and warm flesh. She called to her son and husband, but gunfire drowned out her voice.
Suddenly, something grabbed her arms, and her body shoved down onto another. The man had deep eyes and a dimpled chin. His warm pinstriped chest pressed against hers. Harper recognized him from Eli’s high school. The businessman with the roguish demeanor. Now that cocky smile was replaced by a busted lip and look of despair.
“Can you help me,” he begged.
Harper did a quick scan of the bodies around her. Mounds of the dead. Eli and James could be among them. It was like trying to find a special needle in a pile of needles. Harper felt her bloody hands
clenching the man’s dress vest. The truck gunner and the insurgents were still preoccupied with the other gunners. The nearest Hummer had a flaming truck smashed into its front.
The man yanked her close again. She could smell his minty breath. “My daughter is in this mess. Can you help me?”
“How?” Harper said through her teeth.
“Get. Her.” The man tilted his head to the opposite side of the bridge. Past the insurgents, Harper could make out the teenage girl. Her bright-pink hair wasn’t hard to miss. Lying flat, she waved them down.
Harper gestured to the nearest vehicle. “Hide.”
Wide-eyed, the man let go of her and scurried away. Fuming, Harper started to the barricade. Her arms grew weary as she plodded over the rough terrain. Everywhere she looked was death. Dozens of lifeless eyes followed her as she crawled. She tried her best to keep her hands off anyone’s face, but it wasn’t always possible. Groans and weeping seeped out of the mouths of those around her. It was impossible to tell the origin of the murmurs. Everyone looked dead, but they didn’t feel like it. All were still warm and wet, and occasionally her swollen fingers would slip into someone’s mouth or bullet wound. In her mind she repeated the same word. Survive. Survive. Survive.
Only a few yards separated her from where she last saw her husband and son. She reminded herself of the man’s daughter, as well. She didn’t know how she was going to get her, but she’d find a way. She had to.
In the intermediate pauses between gunfire, crying filled Harper’s ear. She noticed a boy. His face was flush and ugly from tears. Snot ran from his button nose and down his pink lips. A gunman turned that way, and Harper swiftly covered the child’s mouth. She held the boy’s head and her own against the concrete and bodies. After a moment of not being shredded by bullets, Harper turned an eye to the insurgent. His fire returned to the few remaining privates holding their ground. She let her breath return. Putting a finger over her mouth, she removed her hands from the boy’s. Blood stained his lips like red fudge. His doe eyes were locked on hers.
“You see that big car?”
The boy nodded.
“That’s where you have to go. Think of it like a game. You can’t be seen. Understand?”
“But-But it’s not a game. I want Mommy. I want sissy,” the child whined.
“Shh.” Harper forced a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll find Mommy and sissy. You go and hide behind that big car. If no one sees you, start running until you are off the bridge. Okay?”
The boy sniffled and wiped a tear from his eye. “Okay.”
“Remember. You need to be really quiet. And do not let the bad men see you.”
“Okay.”
Harper gave him a hug. “You’re a brave, brave boy. Now go. Hurry.”
As soon as she released him, the six-year-old child crawled toward the Humvee. It only took a few quick glances before Harper saw Mommy and sissy. They all shared the same nose--that was how she knew. The mother had voluminous hair, but that didn’t protect her from the bullet in her brain. The daughter was a little younger than Eli and had sustained a bullet to the heart. Survive, and you’ll have a lifetime to grieve, Harper reminded herself and pressed on.
She moved until her hand fell into someone’s stomach. The string of bullets had nearly sawed him in half; Harper almost finished the job. The sergeant slid her palm out of the warm guts as the man grunted. His eyes were partly rolled back, and blood and puke trickled down his chin. He gargled, trying to communicate with Harper, and then went quiet.
“Pst, Harper. Is that you?” a voiced sounded nearby.
James?
Harper turned about until she saw her husband. His back rested against the fence of the bridge. Bloody drag marks were next to him where an injured someone had flung himself over.
Before Harper could move up, a shout filled her ear. She twisted back to one of the insurgents watching her through his ski mask. He slapped his ally on the shoulder while he himself pulled an ammo magazine from his pocket. Harper rolled to her back, took the pistol in both hands, and opened fire.
Not every shot hit, but the men went writhing back into the darkness. The others behind the truck turned their eyes to Harper, who let her body fall limp among the dead. Her head rested uncomfortably on someone’s chest as she played possum. Shots rang out around her, sending red liquid across her face and uniform as they hit bodies. Blood sloshed against her lips and fell into her mouth as a body next to her took a hit in the throat. A metallic-tasting splash hit her tongue, but she dared not make any sudden moves. Relying on muscle memory, she slid the ammo magazine out of her pistol. In a slow, subtle movement, her fingers glided down the bullet track. The way the magazine was manufactured made it impossible to count the bullets without removing them one by one. That wasn’t going to happen. By the weight, she had two shots, maybe three.
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. The blood in her mouth made her sick. More gunfire. Then footsteps. The insurgent was close. Harper peeked open an eye. The man walked gingerly toward her, shooting suspicious corpses on the way. The other insurgent stayed by the truck, but his attention was on his ally. The turret gunner in the truck’s bed was still blasting away at the other soldiers.
Bullets filled a body only five feet from her. She kept the pistol low. She held the puddle of blood in her mouth. The AK-47’s long barrel aimed down on her.
“Hey!” James yelled out from behind her.
The gunmen looked up. With her slimy hand, Harper grabbed ahold of the hot assault rifle’s barrel and pulled the gunman close enough to spit the blood in his eyes. He pulled the trigger, putting bullets in the body beside Harper. Ears ringing, Harper used her own gun to send two bullets into his chest and neck. She caught his body as he fell. Bullets sunk into him as other gunmen fired upon them. The Kevlar prevented them from going clean through and hitting Harper. With the pistol’s last shot, she hit the gunman in the thigh. The man bowed to one side and screamed, giving Harper enough time to take the AK-47 resting next to her and pump him and the turret gunner full of lead. With a hearty push, Harper shoved the corpse off her. She coughed up more blood, unsure if it was her own or leftovers from the other bodies.
For the moment, the gunfire and screams were distant. Harper turned her gaze to her guts-covered hand. She opened and closed it to lessen the searing pain caused by gripping the assault rifle’s barrel.
Her eyes locked on James. Like a primordial beast, she rose from the corpses, covered in red, and shambled toward him. The blood-soaked uniform weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her foot got caught on a body, and she fell to her knees before him. Back resting against the bridge’s fence, he watched her with a look of fear and relief. Heaving, Harper pulled him close. James tensed up as she planted a kiss on his cheek. The stubble itched her lips, and the taste of blood met sweat. She pulled her mouth away, leaving behind a maroon lip print. “Where’s Eli?”
White as ghost, James shook his head. “I-I don’t know… Last I saw, he was running to the other side.”
Harper groaned and took deep breaths to hype her up. It was working. “Get to that Humvee,” Harper commanded James.
James tried to rise but quickly fell back down. Harper noticed red pooling around his thigh. “The stitches,” he grunted.
“Come here.” Harper took his arm and slung it around her shoulder. Together, they rose. Firelight from the flaming trucks bounced on their faces. As they balanced each other, their feet whisked them to the Humvee, though they could scarcely feel the ground. Harper stopped them at the side of the Hummer and pulled open the driver’s-side door. “Get inside.”
“I’ll help you find him,” James demanded. Harper frowned.
“No. You stay here. If more of them come, get out. I’ll find another transport for Eli and me.”
“That’s not happening,” James protested.
“Do not fight me on this!”
James’s mouth opened as if to speak, but then he reluctantly climbed into the l
arge vehicle. Harper slammed the door for him. She took her assault rifle in both hands and trudged over the mass of corpses, keeping low. She nodded as she passed ally soldiers covered behind vehicles. Hunched, she moved to one of the insurgents’ trucks. The driver inside was dead. The engine hummed noisily. Bullets had obliterated the front bumper and one of the headlights. Harper pressed herself against it. She spit more blood from her mouth and looked around the vehicle’s side. Down the side of the bridge from which the attackers came was an endless stream of bodies and bullet-riddled trucks. Remaining headlights and fires were the only source of light in the darkness, but all they revealed was death. Harper chewed her lip. More lights approached in the distance and started climbing up the bridge.
A half dozen trucks plowed over the bodies. The gunners on the back took pop shots at any survivors making a run for safety. Harper cursed under her breath and turned back to the handful of allies she had left.
“Six trucks inbound. Take a turret, keep your head down, and make sure these bastards don’t cross the barricade.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
The soldiers spread out. Using their last brief moment of peace, they climbed into the Hummers’ gunner stations and trained the M60 machine guns on the collapsed barricade. Harper twisted her vision back to the growling trucks that inched their way up the bridge. She couldn’t escape her feeling of doom.
A bullet zipped past her head. She threw her back against the truck. After opening and closing her burned, bloody hand, she gripped the assault rifle and ran out from cover. The AK rattled her upper body with every shot she blindly fired at the approaching trucks. Massive bullets cut past her, and she praised the starry night for its dark blanket. Flopping on the bundle of bodies, Harper landed on the adjacent side of the bridge. The gunfire, the chaos, the noisy hell came alive as the first truck crossed over. Three Humvee turret guns gave the driver a nice, bullet-filled welcoming. The driver’s head flopped on the horn, and his foot dropped like a deadweight on the accelerator. The truck flew forward, taking the turret gunner on a wild ride until the bullets turned his tires into rubber mush.
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