by Justin Bell
“Let’s do it,” said Rhonda.
The three of them gathered together and walked across the worn carpet toward the exit, then pushed outside, into the bright glare of the afternoon sun. Crowner shielded his eyes from the searing light as Rebecca and Angel looked up from the transport. Angel waved a quick hand toward Phil and Rhonda as they approached, striding over the scattered cobblestone.
Rebecca broke away from the transport and walked toward them, her eyes focused on Crowner, the question forming on her lips even as she stood several yards away.
“So what’s the—”
It came before she could finish. A loud, staggering snapping sound, swift and sudden, rolling over the trees of the Pittsburgh Zoo.
Rebecca whirled around, the sound burned into her brain through years of conditioning. She whirled so fast, she didn’t see Crowner clutch at his chest, staggering backwards, a cloud of crimson breath exhaling up into the clear, warm air.
As the trailing echo of the sniper shot faded, shadows charged from the trees and the world was swallowed by the shatter of gunfire.
Chapter Nine
“Run!” screamed Brad, whirling around in the trees, yelling at Max. They’d both seen it, their eyes wide and mouths agape, the thick group of black clad operatives arming their weapons and preparing the full-scale assault. Just north of the zoo they’d set up shop, and there looked to be several dozen of them there, a mish mash of soldiers, some with tactical vests, some without, some decked out in battle helmets, some with their gleaming bald heads showing.
There was something familiar about their look and feel, something reminiscent of past violence. Something about these men screamed “Ironclad”.
As soon as they’d drawn deeper into the trees and made eye contact, one of the men in the group had seen them, and then came the shouting.
“Move, Max, now! Move!”
Both boys turned and charged, heads down, shoulders plowing through branches and tree trunks and almost immediately gunfire rattled, roaring through the thin clutch of trees, spraying snapping shards of wood and fluttering leaves in wide arcs before and around them. If the boys had been just a little larger, if they’d been men instead of nimble children, they’d have been cut down immediately, but ducking and running, weaving between trees, shots went high and wide, narrowly missing them as they burst back out of the woods and onto the winding path. Max glanced to his left, eyeing the roof of the mess hall, and already a herd of camouflaged men were charging from that direction, guns in hand, voices shouting at the unexpected din of automatic weapons.
“Head right, head right!” Max said, pointing toward the path as the hard surface of the road they were on coughed up sprays of dirt and rock from bullet impacts. Brad planted his foot and spun, bringing his pistol around and just as two men in black emerged from the trees, he pulled the trigger, the Ruger jumping in his tight fist. One of the commandos jerked left and sprawled to the ground while the second drew back to avoid the shots. Chattering fire echoed from the approaching group and the second man flew backwards, limbs flailing as he was swallowed by the trees.
Max came up next to Brad, his pistol elevated as well, firing at the shifting shadows in the trees, trying to keep them honest, to delay them just a bit to give the soldiers a chance to get closer. Branches exploded to the left of where they were aiming and incoming fire chewed a path along the road just next to them, so close that Brad stumbled slightly trying to move out of the way, his weapon drifting down and left as he did.
“Too many of them!” Max breathed. “Let’s go! Quick! We need to warn the others!”
“Careful, kids!” a soldier yelled, just to Brad’s left. “I’m hearing gunfire everywhere. They’re all over the place!” As if in response to this new warning a three-round burst yelled from the trees and the approaching soldier grunted, spiraling backwards, his M4 twirling in the air. It hit the ground, clattering once, and Brad scooped it up, running past the soldier, now lying face down. Max was just behind Brad, legs pumping as fast as he could manage. Behind them more weapons fire exploded, a full-blown war erupting between the black-clad commandos and the mess hall infantry, the kind of war that had no winners and losers, only lives lost and survivors struggling to find a reason.
“There are too many of them!” Brad shouted as he halted momentarily, adjusted, and fired his newly recovered M4. The weapon jerked in his slender arms, and a commando tumbled to the ground ahead of them. “We’ll never make it back to the transport on foot! They’re all over the place!”
Max twisted and fired his own pistol into the trees to their right, unsure if he actually hit anything, though he saw a black shadow withdraw for cover, so he’d bought them precious seconds at least. He could hear gunfire everywhere, from the left, the right, from up ahead and from behind, like they were in the belly of a creature whose only language was 5.56 caliber. They had to get back to the truck, get back and warn the others, or get back and join them in one last stand against whatever enemy they were dealing with this time.
They had to get back. Somehow, they had to find their family. Max only hoped they’d find them alive.
***
Rhonda charged forward, bullets stitching the hard ground just behind her, throwing up a cloudy fountain of dirt and busted stone.
“Take cover!” she screamed, though she knew the command was unnecessary as Rebecca and Angel were already scrambling behind the military transport and Phil had pulled back, heading for the building they had just exited. She couldn’t remember doing it, but the Glock was already up, clutched in both hands, the barrel tracing back and forth, locking on numerous black uniformed targets, firing, then adjusting and firing again, but they seemed to be everywhere. Stumbling forward, she caught her momentum and lurched, almost falling. Angel took three large strides toward her and extended his hand, wrapping it around her arm and yanking her hard toward them, pressing her into the hard metal of the transport truck as weapons fire roared around them all.
“Phil! Stay there!” Rhonda shouted as her husband pulled back into the doorway of the building. Sparks danced along the surface of the structure and a single window shattered, exploding glass out onto the courtyard, spraying shards over the fallen body of Sergeant Crowner, a determined, helpful man who had just been speaking to the four of them minutes earlier. Soldiers were scrambling in all directions, camouflaged combatants from 10th Mountain Division and the Army Corps of Engineers, all of them holding automatic rifles and peppering the new intruders with gunfire. Bodies sprawled along the cobblestone walkway as the intruding commandos scattered, only to grab cover and return fire, throwing camouflaged soldiers to the ground in brutal thumps of wet meat. Rebecca dropped low and reached forward, wrapping her fingers around one of the discarded M4’s, then came up, shouldering the weapon and sighting down the barrel at a pair of shadows creeping around the edge of the information center. A swift burst of weapons fire broke apart the wall near them and sent them sprawling backwards, arms pinwheeling, tumbling out of sight back around the building.
“Phil, now!” shouted Rhonda as the scene cleared momentarily, and he didn’t hesitate, throwing open the door and sprinting toward them, his own pistol in hand, although he knew he wasn’t the most accomplished marksman. Bullets whacked apart the ground to his left as he ran, but he managed to angle around the oncoming barrage, losing his balance and tumbling into a tight roll across the rough ground. Angel and Rhonda helped him to his feet, bringing him toward the transport, as more friendlies arrived, driving back the commandos from the information center. Bullets clanged and clattered off the other side of the truck, and the canvas twitched as gunfire ripped through.
“We’ve driven them back, at least part way!” shouted one of the men in camouflage, a specialist by the looks of the rank on his uniform. The trademark patch of the 10th Mountain Division was on his uniform as well, and he kept his M4 tight to his shoulder, arcing back and forth, spitting swift barrages of calculated gunfire as he moved.
Rhonda shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere without the kids!”
Fields swiveled, pointing her weapon above the hood of the truck and pumped return fire toward the trees, knocking down a moving shape behind one of the narrow trunks. She withdrew as more fire tore back at her, smacking into the sloped metal of the vehicle’s hood, puckering metal and slashing sparks into the air. Angel ducked low and made his way to the rear of the truck with his pistol, then swung around the bed, firing wildly. To his left, canvas tore and flapped and he shouted, stumbling backwards.
“Are you hit?” Rebecca yelled as he toppled to the ground and rolled to his left.
“Not bad,” Angel replied, scrambling to his feet. Blood was starting to form on his left shoulder, above the collarbone, but it was close to the surface.
“Hold still!” Fields yelled at him and she moved next to him, tearing a clump of cloth from his shirt so she could see the wound. “Through and through,” she said. “You’ll live, but dodge better next time would ya?”
“Thanks for your concern,” he replied and stepped back toward the truck.
Rhonda pulled back slightly, looking off to where Winnie had gone with Tamar, toward the aquarium. Dare she hope that they were safe there? Dare she hope that her son and Brad were safe, too? All she could hear was the raging onslaught of weapons fire, from every angle and every direction, and she became suddenly aware that the entire zoo was under full scale assault. Wherever her kids were, they were facing down the same threat, only they didn’t have the cover or the support.
She had to go. She had to find them.
“Don’t do anything stupid!” Phil shouted, as if reading her mind.
“We can’t just sit here!” she screamed. “The kids… they’re right in the middle of this somewhere!”
“Give them a few minutes,” Phil begged. “Please. Let them try to get back to us. If we scramble to find them and they come back and we’re gone, this will get worse before it gets better.”
Rhonda clenched her jaw, but held tight, fighting every single motherly instinct she’d ever had. Bullets continued pounding down around them, and she hoped beyond hope that her children were safe.
***
Six months ago, Winnie would not have recognized the sound of gunfire. She would have assumed someone was shooting off firecrackers or a car was making strange noises. In the three months since the apocalypse, though, the sound of automatic weapons had been burned into her psyche like a wood carving kit.
“Gunshots!” she screamed. Tamar whirled around to her. “In the pool!” she continued, pointing to the mostly empty cavern in the ground where they’d been standing. “Get out of sight!”
They scrambled toward the dug-up hole in the cement ground and ducked down, Winnie hunched low on a sculpted rock outcropping about halfway down, while Tamar hung from the pool edge, his fingers clamped down around the lip of the bright blue liner. Footsteps pounded on the concrete just above them, combat boots scuffing on pavement, the metal rattle of loading magazines and weapon firing pins engaging, signaling the arrival of armed commandos less than ten feet away.
“We’re getting resistance at the Information Center!” a voice barked.
Winnie narrowed her eyes at the sound of the shout, and lifted herself slightly, peering out over the edge of the pool, her eyes focusing on a singular figure striding out among black clad commandos. Her vision honed in on him, a broad-shouldered man wearing a t-shirt with a kevlar vest strapped over it, his bald head glistening with a layer of summer sun sweat.
Karl Green glared out over small, circular sunglasses and swiped a handkerchief over his smooth scalp. Winnie drew in a sharp breath and dropped back down, pinning her spine against the curved edge of the pool, her heart hammering.
“What?” Tamar mouthed in question.
“It’s Karl Green,” Winnie replied, her mouth carefully forming the words. “Ironclad.”
Tamar’s eyes widened, the realization of what Winnie was saying sinking in. Tamar’s history with Ironclad was long and violent, and one of the reasons he’d left Chicago with the Fraser group was to escape that conflict.
No such luck.
“You six!” Green shouted, pointing to a loosely clutched group of commandos. “Head to the Information Center! Try to break down that resistance. You four!” he turned toward another group. “Move toward the Grill, we’re getting reports of a fierce firefight there as well!”
Boot stomps scattered as men dispersed, leaving Green standing with only three remaining armed gunmen. “You three stay here,” he said, “make sure there are no stragglers.”
The remaining three gunmen all spoke their acknowledgement and Green’s footsteps retreated.
“I’m heading back to the mission op center. I need to coordinate operational integrity with the larger battle force!” His steps faded into the distance as he turned and dashed away, leaving the three men standing there next to the pool.
“How large is this larger battle force?” one of the gunmen asked.
“Enough to take Pittsburgh,” a second replied.
“The whole city?”
“I guess?”
“Last time we did that, Toledo got burned to the freaking ground.”
“I just do what I’m told, man.”
The voices grew louder as the three men approached the edge of the pool, their words carrying over Tamar and Winnie as they huddled there, holding their breath, waiting for the men to pass by.
“We don’t have time to sit here,” Winnie whispered, leaning in close to Tamar, her back pinned to the smooth curve of the pool interior.
“What are we supposed to do?” Tamar replied.
Winnie withdrew her Beretta nine-millimeter pistol and clutched it in both hands, turning slightly to tuck her shoulder against the wall. Tamar hung in his spot, his fingers starting to strain and ache as boot steps scraped just above them on the asphalt surface. One of the gunmen halted near the edge of the pool, his boots making a pair of final scuffs before he stopped, his shadow draping over the lip of the pool, just to the left of where Tamar’s fingers clamped. Winnie looked at his bare arms and could see the muscles straining as he held himself there, a good six feet above the inward slope of the pool bottom right where the thick and dank clumpy water rose, too dark to see underneath, a fact that Winnie was happy for.
Tamar drew in a breath and looked at Winnie, pinning her with his eyes, dark and brown, and she could almost read his thoughts through those eyes, and she nodded softly in understanding and acceptance of what he was about to do.
Seeing her reaction, he drew his knees toward his chest and planted his feet on the wall of the pool, and drew in close, held his pose for just a breath, then pushed off, his legs pistoning and shooting him up and away from the slanted wall. His fingers clamped tighter as he twisted his body sideways, bringing his legs up and around, clearing the lip of the pool, one of them curved behind, the other straight out like a broomstick. The straight leg caught the man at the lip of the pool in the calves and his feet jumped out from under him, throwing him harshly backwards, in a clumsy, twisting tumble. The right side of his head cracked hard on the edge of the pool, his neck torqueing and sending him sprawling back down into the pool behind where Tamar had leaped up from. As he came up on the asphalt in a low crouch, one of the other gunmen whirled toward him, but Winnie was lifting herself up, pistol in hand and she fired twice, pumping two nine-millimeter rounds center mass, throwing the commando backwards.
Tamar clamored to his feet, but the third man was on top of him, lifting his rifle above his head and slamming it down, cracking the stock into the boy’s head. Winnie came at him, drawing her pistol around, but the commando moved into her range of motion and kicked her in the chest, knocking her backwards. Her shoulders struck first, lacing a white tear of pain through her left side. Tamar struggled to his feet as the man turne
d back on him, and side-stepped a second swinging strike with the weapon, then kicked the commando, sending him stumbling backwards. He recovered quickly and drove the butt of the assault rifle into Tamar’s stomach, doubling him over, then turned the weapon around, shouldering it and glaring down the length of the barrel at where the boy was hunched.
Winnie rolled over on her back and fired her pistol again, three shots this time and the man with the weapon shouted, jerking forward, then disappeared down inside the empty pool. A low, wet splash sounded from where the body struck the shallows.
In the distance, the chattering of gunfire echoed across the trees while Winnie sat on the pavement and Tamar crawled back up to his feet, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
“You alright?” Winnie asked, her voice shaking.
He nodded. “You?”
She gave a brave thumbs up. Getting to his feet, Tamar walked over to her and extended his hand, pulling her upright as well.
“Sounds like stuff’s going down at the Information Center,” he said. “What say we go see what’s up.”
Winnie nodded. “Mom and Dad are there… let’s go bail their butts out.”
Tamar nodded, the two of them breaking for the trees to make their way toward the action.
***
Bullets sang their metal on metal song, scattering along the surface of the military transport, shooting sparks and bursts of light along a crooked path. Rhonda gave it three beats, then swung up over the hood with her stolen M4 and rattled off a quick burst of return fire.
“We can’t hang around here forever!” Rebecca called out. She grabbed her own automatic and swung around the rear of the truck, reaching over Angel who sat with his back pressed against one of the large rear tires, hand against his upper shoulder where light cloth was stained the color of rust.