by Tim Cody
“Michaela!” Nightingale shouted, her eyes suddenly wide as saucers and wrapped in tears.
“Uh-oh!” Tommy shouted when he heard Nightingale calling out. “It sounds like someone fell for my clever little trap!”
“God dammit, Tommy!” Jonny shouted, pivoting back around the corner and opening fire. He emptied what little was left in his magazine, but didn't hit Tommy or the other squad members. After that he returned to cover, dropped his rifle and drew his sidearm, cocked the hammer back, and struggled to control his breathing. It was increasing as rapidly as his anger was rising.
“Michaela, what do I do!?” Nightingale shouted as she reached across Michaela's body to grab her medical kit. “Tell me how to fix you!”
Michaela gurgled blood and spit it onto the floor. “No, child...” she muttered out, her voice weak. “No, child, it is my time... There is nothing you can do to fix me, I am hurt too badly.”
“No, I can! I can, just tell me how!” She opened up the kit, but didn't know what to use. There were gauze bandages, scissors, a suture kit, but she didn't know what would stop the bleeding. She was becoming frantic as she rifled through the supplies.
“No, no, little one, be calm...” Michaela lifted her hand toward Nightingale's face and caressed her cheek. She tucked some hair behind her ear, and smiled that calming and comforting smile.
“But, I... I can't...” Nightingale dropped the kit and grabbed Michaela's hand, and began to weep.
“You are going to be just fine. You are strong, and you are far braver than you even know, Nightingale.”
Nightingale gasped slightly when Michaela called her by that name. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, and nodded at her words.
“Jonny will protect you from here.” She struggled to lift her head, but doing so increased the flow of blood. It was pooling on the floor beneath her. “Jonny,” she choked out, her voice becoming weaker by the word, “see her out of this building securely. Theo and I will be saving you a seat in the afterlife.” She managed a quiet chuckle. “We hope to not see you too soon, however...”
The bird on Nightingale's shoulder began to chirp sadly as she began to cry harder. Michaela's eyes slipped shut, and her hand went limp in Nightingale's grasp. Her head tilted against the floor, and she died.
“No, please...” Nightingale choked out through her increasing sobs.
“You're out of options, California,” Tommy called out.
Jonny's nostrils flared and his lips twitched in an uncontrollable snarl. His eyes were wide and he stared at the gun he held in front of his face. He was losing the battle with his temper.
“Just give it up!” Tommy taunted. “You guys really are just a bunch of glitches! Your squad is dead, so if I may polish off an old chestnut: come out with your hands up!”
Jonny spun around the corner, arm extending fully to aim his sidearm square at Tommy's forehead. “Go %$#@ yourself, Tommy!” He squeezed his trigger in time with the other squad. A hail of bullets hurtled toward Jonny, but he didn't even seem to care. All his attention was focused on the one he had loosed—the one flying true to Tommy.
“Noooooooo!!” Nightingale shouted, and the entire building rumbled.
The floor around Nightingale and Michaela's body fractured, cracking in a perfect circle, leaving them completely untouched. A powerful and invisible shock wave erupted outward from that point, which all but laid waste to their surroundings. The walls burst outward and then crumbled in, doors were reduced to splinters, and the light fixtures in the ceilings shattered to rain down glass.
The recently fired bullets were tossed all over and lost in the chaos. Jonny was taken off his feet and hurled several yards away, curling up and covering his head and neck with his arms as soon as he landed. He remained huddled against the wall, unable to do anything as his body was pushed around by this destructive force.
The two remaining men at the end of the hall were tossed around like rag dolls. They were thrown into the walls with enough force to break their bodies in two, reduced to mere piles of flesh and broken bones in the few seconds it took them to hit the walls and then the ground. Their rifles were scrapped—reduced to parts, individual pieces scattering all over.
Tommy missed the brunt of the impact thanks to his cover in the stairwell. The blast shattered his left arm and shoulder since he had been leaning into the doorway, and it took him off his feet. The cement landing he was on cracked and rumbled, and shifted suddenly as it prepared to give way.
He looked down at the surface and tried to reach for something to grab on to, but the railing was out of his right arm's reach. His left arm hung limp, useless, his rifle on the ground by his side. “Oh, $#!%,” he said, just before the floor collapsed right out from under him.
Once the destruction had subsided, Nightingale threw herself over Michaela's body and wept. The bird chirped and cried along with her, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than Michaela to wake up and stroke her hair.
She wanted Michaela to tell her everything would be alright, and she wanted to see her smile.
But instead she got Jonny grabbing her by the shoulders and lifting her roughly to her feet.
“We need to keep moving,” Jonny said. His face was scraped and bleeding, and he was covered in cement dust.
“No!” Nightingale shouted and shoved Jonny away. She dropped back to her knees and grabbed Michaela's hand again. “I'm not leaving her!”
“Don't be stupid!” Jonny yelled. “I don't know what the %$#@ just happened, but it bought us some time!”
He didn't even wait for an answer. He crouched and scooped Nightingale into his arms, and immediately bolted down the hallway toward a different stairwell. The floor was difficult to run over, having practically been reduced to chunks of rubble after the blast.
“No!” Nightingale reached for Michaela—for something, for anything—as she was lifted, and managed to grab her medical kit. She clutched it by the strap, and used her other hand to shove and strike Jonny. “Let me go!” She landed a strong slap across his face, and then shouted and grabbed her head when a surge of pain rushed through it.
She caught glimpses of Glitch squad—Jonny, Michaela, Theo, and Tommy—standing outside a crumbling, burning building. She could hear people screaming inside, and she heard Jonny and Tommy arguing.
“The building was not clear!” Jonny yelled at Tommy, his face red with rage. “There were civilians in there! Children!”
Tommy didn't back down—in fact, he stomped toward Jonny and leaned in close to yell back. “There were enemy contacts in there, too! And guess how many are in there now? Zero!”
“You defied a direct order!”
“I completed the objective!”
“What's it gonna be, Jonny?” Theo asked. He looked torn between the building and the argument.
“Innocent people remain alive inside,” Michaela said as she set her rifle aside and rolled down her sleeves. “With or without you, I am going back in to rescue them.”
Jonny grabbed the front of Tommy's vest and pulled him close, his other fist catching him with a strong right hook. He knocked him out cold, and then discarded his own rifle. “Glitch squad, move out! Secure any survivors!”
The three sprinted back into the burning building, and suddenly Nightingale was standing on her own two feet.
“Listen, kid,” Jonny said, standing beside an open door next to the word Lobby, “I'm not letting you die in here, not after all we've been through. You understand?” Since ECHO had turned the lobby into their staging ground, the doors leading to it were left open and under guard.
“What...” Nightingale muttered, rubbing the soreness from her head. “When did we get down here?” she asked.
“Just now. Are you with me?” he asked. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, I'm fine...” For an instant she had hoped it was a dream—that she had hit her head and passed out, and that Michaela was standing right behind her. But she wasn't.
“
Trust me, I get it—losing someone, it sucks, and as soon as we get out of here I'll think of something real comforting to say. But first, we need to make sure that Theo's and Michaela's sacrifices don't go to waste.”
Nightingale nodded. She remembered Michaela's last words to Jonny—to get her out of here. It's what she wanted.
She remembered the last words spoken to her, as well: that she was strong, and brave. She stared down at the medical kit in her hands, wrung its strap in her fists, and then slung it over her shoulder. She secured it bandolier-style, nodded, and steeled herself.
“They won't go to waste,” she said.
“We're about to walk right into ECHO's base camp. Stick close, and stay absolutely silent. Do you understand?” He cocked back his sidearm's hammer and looked down at Nightingale.
“Roger.” She nodded, and then added, “And...I'm sorry I slapped you...”
Chapter 8
%$#@!^& Glitches
Jonny spent a few more minutes in the stairwell, peeking one eye through the door, keeping an eye on the ECHO squad assigned to guard duty and studying their patrol routes. Heavy Guard, led by Thaddeus Garland, was in command of all base camp operations, and was essentially second-in-command in the field—second only to Command itself. If an ECHO squad was for some reason unable to report directly to Command, they were to report to Heavy Guard. No doubt they had all the information pertaining to Glitch squad and Subject Nightingale.
However, Jonny knew Garland as a reasonable man. He saw a glimmer of hope that he would allow him to walk out the front door under the right circumstances—it was just up to Jonny to determine those circumstances.
The four-man squad was stationary for the most part, watching the front door and surveying the second-floor mezzanine, but every once in a while Garland sent a pair of squad members to patrol the perimeter and make sure building security wasn't getting into their supply crates.
Crates of varying sizes had been brought in to support the ECHO squads when they needed reloading and restocking. The Lab was tall—100 stories high—and extremely well guarded, so they were dug in and prepared for a siege that could last up to a few days. The crates were spaced a few yards away from the walls, and provided a path right to the front door.
“We'll use the crates for cover,” Jonny whispered to Nightingale, who was close behind him. The nearest crate was about four-feet tall, and two yards directly ahead of them. Once the patrol returned to the center of the lobby, he motioned for her to follow. “Keep low. Watch me and follow my lead.”
He crouched and moved swiftly to the crate, pistol held in both hands as he looked all around, and Nightingale matched his movements. Jonny turned his back to the crate and leaned against it, and let out a quiet breath once they were behind cover. He crept along the crate's side and eased his head around, scoping out the guards. They were distracted chatting with each other, so he and Nightingale moved to an adjacent crate.
“What do we have here...” Jonny muttered to himself, looking down at a green steel footlocker lined up with the edge of the next crate they hid behind. He flipped its latches and lifted the lid, and his eyes went wide with surprise. “Holy crap, it's like Christmas!” he exclaimed quietly when he saw the chest packed with tan bricks labeled C4. A plan immediately took shape.
Nightingale tried to look over his shoulder at what he was so excited about, but didn't recognize what she saw.
“Kid, keep lookout,” he said.
“Lookout?”
“Yeah, poke your head around that crate and tell me if anyone's coming.” Jonny turned toward the footlocker and began stacking the C4 on the ground. Their detonators were in the same case, so he began inserting the small rods into the putty and connecting the appropriate wires.
Nightingale nodded slowly and gulped nervously. She didn't exactly know what made a good lookout, and was worried she would catch a bullet. She leaned her back against the edge of the crate and eased her head around its side, and then breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she saw the four guards still just chatting. They weren't looking in her direction, and she hoped they stayed that way.
“They're just talking,” she said quietly.
Garland looked experienced. He wore his tactical gear well, carried himself like a true veteran, and the others seemed to hang on his every word. His gray mustache seemed particularly at home on his face, and it helped to accentuate his strong features. One could read countless war stories just by looking at his face.
Jonny began lobbing the prepared explosives over the crate. They landed near the center of the lobby, some slid under the furniture, and then he slid several across the floor along the wall to spread them out as evenly as he could.
“What are you doing!?” Nightingale whispered when she saw the explosives landing all over.
Garland noticed the noise. “Go check it out,” he ordered, and two split off to investigate.
“Come on!” Jonny grabbed Nightingale's wrist and rushed along the crates. He remained crouched low, but moved much quicker than before.
“Contact!” one of the guards shouted, and instead of ducking behind cover, Jonny sprung to his feet to reveal himself.
“C4!” he immediately shouted back, and showed Heavy Guard the detonator he held in one hand.
Nightingale shot up along with him, but her eyes went wide when she looked between the four members of Heavy Guard and Jonny all aiming guns at each other. She immediately ducked back behind the crate.
Jonny's sidearm was clenched in his other fist, arm extended, sights square on the squad member who called contact.
“Glitch squad, stand down!” Garland shouted, his rifle raised and trained on Jonny.
Jonny changed his target to Garland.
“Secure the experiment,” Garland ordered one of his squad members, and he began to approach without hesitation.
Jonny adjusted his target again and fired a single shot, taking him out with a single bullet to the head. The rest of the squad opened fire, but Jonny took cover behind the crate just in time. “Maybe I should clarify,” he shouted, “I've got primed C4 charges spread all over the lobby, and I'm holding the damn detonator!”
“Sir, he's telling the truth,” one of the squad members told Garland, showing him the brick they had spotted earlier. He plucked the pins out of the putty to disarm it, but there were still who-knows-how-many primed and ready scattered around the lobby.
“I've got my thumb on a dead-man's switch, that means we all go up if I drop, so here's how it's gonna go—” Jonny began.
“Where'd he get a dead-man's switch?” one of the squad members asked.
“%$#@!^& glitches,” Garland shook his head.
“—you guys are gonna let us walk right out the front door. It's just that simple.” He looked down at the detonator, his thumb hovering over the standard switch.
“Should we call it in, sir? Command should advise.”
“Command won't give a $#!%. We have our orders: we're to terminate all experiments at any cost.”
The squad member raised his rifle and prepared to advance, but Garland put his hand on the barrel. “Stand down, soldier,” he said. “Command would tell us to sacrifice our own lives for the sake of the mission, but I have no interest in dying today. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. We'll let them go today so we can track them down tomorrow.”
“Sir.” The squad member lowered his rifle.
“Alright, Glitch squad, come on out,” Garland said, his voice a bit calmer. He touched the elastic band at his throat to communicate with the rest of Heavy Guard positioned outside the building. “We've got two people coming out—Jonny California from Glitch squad, and a girl. Do not engage. I repeat: do NOT engage.”
Jonny raised his hand over the crate first, showing them the detonator as a reminder. He kept his thumb over the button, but kept his hand tilted to hide the fact it was just a normal switch. “Come on, kid,” he said to Nightingale, his other hand pointing his gun at th
e three remaining soldiers.
“This isn't going to end well for you, California,” Garland said, his arms folded, rifle hanging by its strap.
“Few things in this world do end well,” Jonny replied as he and Nightingale eased toward the door.
A single, powerful shot rang through the lobby, and Jonny caught a bullet with the right side of his ribs. It took him off his feet and he landed behind another crate, and pulled himself to sit up against it.
“Jonny!” Nightingale shouted, immediately kneeling beside him.
“Dammit, I said hold your fire!” Garland shouted, and he and his men turned to aim their rifles at the second-floor mezzanine.
Tommy, bloody and beaten, was laying flat on his severely fractured ribs, the handle of a sniper rifle clenched tight in his right fist. His left arm was extended to his side, limp on the floor, mangled and useless. He pulled the rifle back toward his face and leaned his head up to grab the hammer with his teeth, and cocked it back to eject the empty casing and ready a new bullet.
He stared down its scope at where Jonny and the girl were hiding. “Not gonna happen,” he said to Garland. “We have our orders.”
“In the interest of not being blown to smithereens by a man with a dead-man's switch, I opted to temporarily overwrite those orders!” Garland shouted back, and he and his men cocked their rifles. “Do you have a problem with that, soldier!?”
Tommy gritted his teeth and sneered. “It seems like you're always doing this to me lately, California!” he called to Jonny. “Putting me in the absolute worst Mexican standoffs!”
Nightingale had opened up Michaela's medical kit and was rummaging through its contents. “Can you tell me how to help you? What do you need?” she asked frantically.
“No.” Jonny shook his head.
“What do you mean no!?”
“I mean the bullet's in my heart.”
Tears began to pour from Nightingale's eyes, and she looked down at the kit in her hands. She didn't know what to do anymore. Everyone kept dying, and she couldn't help any of them.
“You're going to run straight out that door, okay?” Jonny told her. “You're not going to pay attention to anyone who may be out there, and you aren't going to look back. You're just going to run as fast as you can, and as far as you can.”