by Brian Cody
Maneuvered into triangular formation, the three garbage trucks surrounded the cargo vehicle in a barricade of green and white. The first truck’s driver, after shifting his rifle around his back, stepped down and twirled his hand. Then, while pointing to the cargo truck’s cab and the second gunman at the console, the driver started for the container. As he walked, the other garbage trucks were emptied, with four more masked riflemen, two per truck, stepping out alongside of four other men, armed with pistols and carrying hand dollies. As the driver reached the back of the cargo truck, the two container doors inched ajar. With his hands against his sides, he looked to the chilled interior, the twelve bright-orange canisters tethered to the floor, and the black radioactivity symbols painted on their sides. He humphed.
“Load up.”
As the four men carrying dollies ran to the container, as an automated ramp was extruded from the bottom of the container, and as the driver looked to the surrounding buildings and scratched his chin, the added moan of pneumatic doors sounded from the second and third garbage trucks. As the ramp touched the ground, the two garbage trucks exposed, from their holds, flattened interiors lined with tethers. As the dolly carriers started up the ramp and started unhooking the first vats, the driver stepped but stopped at the howl of emergency sirens. The other men tensed, then turned to him.
The driver spun, trying but failing to trace the direction of those calls. He pointed to two riflemen, directing them to the back of their shielding formation. He pointed to two more, placing one on each of the formation’s side, and he, with the remaining three, ran to the first garbage truck. As the riflemen took their places and as the other four gunmen transported the vats to the second and third garbage trucks, the driver stepped to the right passenger tire of the first truck, leaned past the grille, and looked down the road to the police cruiser. As the sirens strengthened in tone and occurrence, he motioned his rifle to his hands and as red and blue lights reflected along adjoining buildings, he lifted his rifle to eye level. As a second cruiser sped into view and stopped beside the first, the driver switched his rifle from semi- to full automatic. The driver squeezed.
***
David squeezed the outside of his forearms as the officer printer spewed the second of five presentations. Rising to tiptoe and to stretch his calves, he looked to the sign above the printer and along the green pillar behind it—’BLACK AND WHITE ONLY’. Hearing his third document slide into the ejection slot, he looked to students—walking to the help desk at the back wall or standing at the counters to work at desktops—and examined their garb. Polo… he thought as he looked to one male student. Polo…polo…polo… he counted as he examined the male students in view. Am I seriously the only one here out of dress code? David looked to his green tee shirt. Come o-o-on… As his fifth document slid out and as the printer silenced, David grabbed the sheets and turned for his book-bag atop the line of Ottomans dividing the lane. Reaching his book-bag, he shoved the documents into the main compartment, wrapped his carrier onto his back, and strode on.
Passing onto a vinyl floor similitudinous to laminated wood, he scanned the couches and chairs aligned in groups and pockets but, finding no others as rebellious as he, then focused on the stairwell in the back-right corner. Shoot! barreled through his mind as he sighted, within a group of students standing before a hanging television, an individual in a polo shirt and khaki pants. I’ve seen you before. You’re an RA… David accelerated into a power-walk and, while gripping his book-bag’s straps, focused on the stairwell. A gasp sounded.
Choral and pitched, it echoed through the area. David stopped at the stairwell’s threshold and looked back to the group of students around the television, some with clasped mouths, and others with their eyes on their phones as they punched out text messages. David looked to the screen, to the eagle-eye view of a street, to the three garbage trucks and their captured cargo, and then to a formation of patrol cars crowded around an adjacent intersection. He stepped as he perceived, even from twenty feet, the flashes of ricocheted rounds, and he walked to the crowd and looked to the television as the camera focused on the cargo truck, the masked men delivering its containers to the garbage trucks, and the masked men shooting at the officers. He looked to the ticker.
ROBBERY + SHOOTOUT IN PROGRESS IN LYNCHBURG CITY
A second gasp directed David back to the camera view. He tensed as an officer staggered back, while shattered glass erupted around that individual. As the officer collapsed and grasped the sanguinary blotch on his side, David’s heart fluttered into accelerated beats. The shakes of students and the hurried turns of their heads dredged beside his gaze. The flashes of gunfire, the radiant slides of the screen’s refreshing image, and the facial motions of gasping and calling officers became perceivable to him. He looked to the ticker.
ONE OFFICER CONFIRMED DEAD IN AMBUSH OF TRUCK TRANSPORTING RETIRED REACTOR PARTS. TRUCK OPERATORS MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. SWAT TEAM 30 MINUTES AWAY.
The gasps were replaced by murmurs, and the crowd of students, then swelling, glared at that screen as the helicopter circled around the street. David stepped back. Pulling out his phone, he opened it and type, with his fingers jabbing and spearing at the numbers with blurring motions. He stopped, and his phone, then registering the bombardment, spewed the message onto his screen. After rereading the message, he turned for the stairwell and, after selecting the recipients and sending his message, he strode for the steps.
***
David’s strides, as Dorm 10’s back doorway locked behind him, were unloosed of their restraint. His once-calm pace accelerated to a steady jaunt for three paces, then, after three paces more, a jog; then a sprint, and, as he shot past the bathroom and bolted for Room 111, his frame, then soaking with adrenal fluids, teetered towards superhuman velocities. Stopping at his door, he grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed. He looked in. His heart rate slowed at the sight of Shawn and Nate standing beside the door, and his gaze slighted as he found Turrisi standing at the window. He entered.
“Did you guys get my text?” David asked as he locked and closed the door and stepped to the window while looking to Bryen and Erik at their desks.
“‘Hey guys, meet me in Room 111. It’s urgent’”, Shawn recited as he looked to his phone.
“Okay, cool”, David replied as he reached around Turrisi, closed the blinds, and then shut the curtains.
“You okay, Piekarsky?” Turrisi inquired as he looked to David’s shaking grip.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m…” David backed to his desk and dropped his book-bag. He crossed his arms and, while clearing his throat, looked around. “I’m not keeping anyone from something important, am I?”
“I actually have to head to work in an hour”, Nate remarked.
“I have class in forty minutes”, Bryen continued as he locked his computer.
“I was gonna head to the gym, but that was going to be with you, anyway”, Erik noted. “Why, what’s up?”
“While I was at the C-Lab”, David began as he backed from his desk and stepped towards his bed. He raised his hands but lowered them as his phone vibrated. Though reaching to silence it, he stopped as he heard Bryen’s phone jostle along his desk, Erik’s phone rumble along his books, and Shawn’s phone tremble within his hand. He looked up as they, Turrisi, and Nate reached for their devices and, in unison, opened or unlocked them.
“An Emergency Alert”, Bryen spoke. “‘The governor has declared the City of Lynchburg and surrounding counties in a state of emergency. All on-campus students are advised not to leave campus, and all off-campus students are advised to avoid major roads and seek immediate shelter.’”
“Same”, Turrisi spoke, while Nate and Shawn nodded, and while Erik glared at that message and looked to David.
“Exactly.” Shawn, Turrisi, Bryen, and Nate turned to David. “I saw it on the news in the C-Lab. A group of hijackers ambushed a truck carrying radioactive parts. The police caught up to them, but they’re involved in a shootout.” Shaw
n, Nate, Bryen, and then Turrisi—David watched their gazes shift and pull, widening and paling and angling askew, perhaps anticipating his following words. “There are confirmed deaths, and, from what I saw, the police were outgunned.”
“Dave”, Erik muttered as he looked at his phone.
“It looked like they had automatic rifles, and they looked pretty organized”, David continued. “At the moment, the cops might be in for a vicious battle.”
“Dave”, Erik repeated as he stood.
“This sounds farfetched, but I_”
“No”, Erik spoke while shaking his head.
“I think_”
“No”, Erik blared. “Out of the question, Dave!”
“Erik”, David began.
“Don’t!” Erik barked. “Don’t even suggest it!”
“Erik, just let me explain”, David replied.
“There’s nothing to explain, Piekarsky!” Erik exclaimed. “A state of emergency is in effect! This isn’t a bank robbery or stopping carjackers or helping someone’s grandmother cross the street! If it’s even half as bad as you just explained, it is out of our league! Field agents, and Special Forces, and SWAT teams train years for these kinds of encounters! We can’t give in to that urge! Not for something like this; we need to leave it for someone who’s prepared.”
“Like who?!” David asked. “The SWAT team is twenty minutes away. Unless you or Turrisi aren’t telling me something, there aren’t authorized heroes in this area who can go in and do what we could!”
“What could we do? Get ourselves killed?!” Erik scoffed. “I have training, Turrisi has training, and what about everyone else? That training doesn’t pour over to the rest of you, and even if it did, I have never encountered something with this many variables! We’re ill-equipped!”
“We’re not!” David retorted. “We’ve all done at least one outing, and we’ve all worked under different circumstances! You’re twelve for twelve, Klinge’s been doing this since freshman year, B-money for at least half a decade! We’re all still intact. We were picked for this program for a reason. They say we need more training, and honestly, Erik, we probably do, but with the knowledge we have, with the experiences we collectively bring? I think we could do it!” David stepped back and looked around, while Erik, his left leg tapping, looked to the blinds and shook his head. David, pouting, grabbed his hair. “Do you know why I acted at the bridge?” He focused on Erik. “I knew, even if I was as fast and as discreet as possible, that the government could find out and, at the very least, fine me! But I kept seeing people crash and be crushed! I kept running past incinerated cars and burning corpses, and I imagined each and every way that I could have saved them if I had been given the chance! Me remaining inactive…not doing anything…in my mind…” David looked around. “It would be a far greater offense that I would have to live with than breaking some law.”
He looked to Erik. Erik, stepping back, leaned against his loft and looked to the ceiling. “I don’t know what I can do…how I can help, but I know I can do something. I’m not forcing anyone else to go, but if you choose to, I’m leaving in ten.” David looked to the other four. None made eye contact, instead glancing to one another before focusing on Turrisi. Turrisi, his arms crossed as he leaned along the window, looked to Erik. Erik, after thrusting his hands by his sides, bit his lip and closed his eyes. David closed his eyes and nodded.
“Disguises.” That murmur jolted David, Nate, Bryen, Shawn, and Turrisi, diverting them to Erik, who still faced the ceiling. “If you don’t disguise yourselves, you’re drawing bulls-eyes on your friends and families.”
“Hats”, David replied, “sunglasses, gloves, scarves, anything. We don’t leave evidence, we don’t give away our identities, and we don’t get shot. We know each other, and we’ve lived with one another. I’m not worried about gunfire, but I’ve got everyone’s backs, and I know you guys will do the same.”
Erik reared forward and grabbed his hair. While pulling, he turned and pressed his head against the loft. He lowered his arms. “Hypothetically speaking, if we did this—throw government regulation to the wind—and found that the police were regaining control, we’d leave without any interference.”
“Yeah”, David replied. “Yeah, agreed.”
Erik squeezed his fists and pouted. “Turrisi…I need my bag from your truck.”
“Your…?” Turrisi’s voice sank and stammered. “Wait…wait…you’re doing it?” Turrisi’s eyes gaped as he stepped from the window, while Erik looked to him. “You’re actually…?” He cleared his throat and looked around. “Yeah…yeah, right!” He jogged for the door, opened it, and darted to his left.
“For the record: we are doing this, right?” Nate asked.
“I’m doing it; are you doing it?” David asked.
“Broad daylight…automatic weaponry…radioactive material…a shoulder injury that hasn’t completely healed…” Nate looked aside while rubbing his chin. “It’s either this or work.”
“Shawn?” David asked.
“What?” Shawn coughed. “Yeah, yeah, man, of course!” He cleared his throat and forced a grin while fisting his shaking hands. “We got this. Like you said, we’ve got the experiences, and I bet we’ll…” He looked groundward for a moment. “I’ve got your backs but…if someone’s shot…it won’t be my fault.” He stepped for the door but stopped and wagged his pointer. “I think B-money should be the one who delivers the bad news to whosever parents.”
“What?” Bryen grunted.
“Not it!” Shawn called as he ran into the hall.
“Not it!” Nate called.
“Not it!” David blared as he tapped his nose. Bryen turned to Erik.
“H*** no”, Erik mouthed.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go then”, Bryen humphed.
“Don’t you dare!” David called. “Come on, let’s do this!”
“Right”, Nate murmured. “Clothes.” As Bryen stood and David reached for his wardrobe, Nate jogged out of the room, down the hall, and into his open door. As David pulled out a pair of basketball shorts, as Nate walked into his closet, and as Shawn pulled out a weighted duffle bag from under his bed, Bryen walked to the closet on the right of the room, knelt, and reached.
“Dude, that’s not your closet”, Erik grunted while looking to David. “Yours is…right behind your desk…” Bryen reared up with a black duffle bag that was loose, covered in dust, and with fibers strewn from the pulls of felid claws. “Wait, what?”
“I keep my gear in your closet”, Bryen replied.
“Because?” Erik asked.
“If someone ever caught on to me, they wouldn’t think to look in your stuff”, Bryen replied as he dropped his duffle bag onto his chair.
“Reasonable”, David replied as he pulled out a grey hoodie from his pile of unwashed clothes.
“Not bad”, Erik furthered. As Bryen opened his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of black jeans tighter and more faded than his usual pair, David pulled out a pair of winter gloves; Nate applied his hooded jacket; and Shawn, while looking to Darren staring at the television with headphones applied, donned his scuffed, black shirt. Erik, after checking the time on his phone, looked to David applying his shorts, and then to Bryen buttoning his pants, lowering a black, denim shirt, and extracting a black trench coat, long enough to hang to his knees, more faded than his jeans, and littered with deep lines of previous stitching. “Dude, aerodynamics”, Erik grunted.
“Yeah”, Bryen replied as he unbuttoned his black shirt to apply his heavier black shirt.
“You’re fast, right? Doesn’t the trench coat slow you down?” Erik asked.
“Yeah, but it’s helped with intimidation”, Bryen replied.
“You wouldn’t need a trench coat if you went to the gym with us”, David murmured while applying his hoodie. He turned as Turrisi stood at the doorway with two duffle bags, one red; the other blue. Turrisi lobbed the red one to Erik, and, as Erik caught it, raised his hand.
; “To be clear: I am going as tactical support as is laid out in my duties as your Contact.”
“Correct”, Erik replied with a nod.
“I will not be responsible for any deaths not caused immediately by me”, Turrisi finished.
“Agreed”, Erik replied.
“I hope to God we do not blow this”, Turrisi groaned as he backed out of the door. “And lock your door, guys”, he grunted while slamming the entrance.
“We won’t blow it”, David spoke as he pulled a pair of muddled, grey basketball sneakers from under his bed.
“It doesn’t matter if we blow it or not”, Erik replied while unzipping his bag. “I’m screwed regardless.”
“No, you’re not allowed to think like that”, David replied.
“We’re not allowed to do any of this either”, Erik murmured as he extracted his yard-long scabbards. As he pulled out a pair of cargo pants and a sleeveless black shirt with a weave thicker than David’s hoodie, Bryen extracted a bottle of white hair product, David applied his gloves, Nate tightened his sneakers, and Shawn, dressed in his black outfit, looked to the remaining cluster of items within his duffle bag—his red catcher’s helmet and several plates below it. Shawn glanced back to Darren, grabbed his helmet—still malleated from his bout with David—and, while holding his breath, pulled the malformations back into place. As he pulled, Nate stretched his arms, David stretched his legs, Bryen lathered his hair, and Erik clipped his two scabbards on the loops of his pants.
“What are those?” David asked.
“Katana”, Erik replied, “or ‘samurai swords’ for most westerners.”