Rooster (Road To Babylon, Book 3)

by Sam Sisavath

  “Tell me,” Keo whispered, his face barely an inch from the Bucky’s, “how much do you really want to keep this eye?”

  Six

  The Bucky was young. Early twenties, possibly mid-twenties. He had short blond hair in what looked like a week-old buzz cut. Keo had seen hundreds of kids like him—and that was what he was despite the assault vest and spare ammo crammed into every pouch. He was just a kid, but one with a rifle and blood on his hands. Maybe a little blood, maybe a lot. Even the purest souls he’d met since The Purge, since The Walk Out, had blood on their hands in one form or another. You had to, if you wanted to remain alive these days.

  “Adapt or perish,” as the people of Black Tide liked to say.

  This kid had clearly adapted, though how much remained to be seen. Judging by dark blue eyes that glared back at Keo, maybe the adaptation was by a large margin. There was intelligence in those eyes that told Keo the kid knew pulling the trigger again wasn’t going to do any good, but if he could get out a scream to alert the others…

  Keo pressed harder with his forearm, and the Bucky gagged slightly.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Keo hissed.

  The kid’s eyes snapped toward the door to his left, to Keo’s right.

  “I will fucking kill you,” Keo whispered. It was the most menacing he could make it, and he hoped the scar on his face helped to sell it, because he didn’t want to kill this kid.

  Don’t make me kill you. Don’t you fucking make me kill you.

  The Bucky looked back at him with defiant eyes, and Keo thought, He’s thinking about it. He’s actually thinking about it.

  Christ, why do they all have to be so stubborn?

  “Trust me, you don’t wanna die,” Keo said. “You don’t have to die. So don’t make me kill you. Because I will. They told you about me, didn’t they? Back at Fenton? It’s all true. I will kill you, and I will sleep just fine tonight. Better than fine. I will sleep like a goddamn baby sucking on his mom’s teats.”

  The Bucky didn’t reply, not that he could with Keo’s forearm against his throat. But he also hadn’t squeezed off another shot, maybe because, like Keo, he knew it’d be a waste of a bullet.

  Yeah, better save that bullet, pal. Never know when your buddies might need it with that army outside.

  “What’s happening?” Keo asked. “Out there? Who’s attacking the lobby?”

  The Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and there was something that looked like confusion on his face.

  He doesn’t know. He’s just as clueless as I am.

  Keo switched tactics to something else the kid would definitely know. “Who’s in charge of your little posse?”

  The Bucky struggled to breathe, and Keo lessened the pressure slightly. Not a lot, just enough that his captive could talk.

  “What’s his name?” Keo asked. “Your boss? The one you were talking to earlier?”

  The Bucky shook his head.

  “What?” Keo said. “What’s that mean?”

  More head shaking, just before the rifle moved slightly between their bodies. Not too much, because the barrel remained pointed to the side and up at the ceiling. Keo didn’t care about that; anywhere was fine as long as it wasn’t at him.

  “What are you doing?” Keo asked.

  No response, just those dark eyes staring back at him. Still defiant.

  “Hey, stop that,” Keo said, when he felt something brushing against his stomach, before quickly moving away, like it was groping around for something—

  “Don’t,” Keo said.

  The hand stopped moving, and Keo locked eyes with the Bucky.

  “Don’t,” Keo said again. “Don’t you fucking do it.”

  The kid swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Keo’s forearm.

  “Don’t,” Keo said for the third time, just before he saw the flicker of decision in the kid’s eyes.

  Goddammit, Keo thought, and shoved his forearm even harder against the Bucky’s neck, putting everything he had into it this time.

  The man grunted, his face pained, and as he struggled to breathe, Keo pulled back his right hand and drove the knife into the Bucky’s gut. He pushed it in almost dead center, just under the navel and into that soft spot where the Kevlar underneath the assault vest ended and the waistline of his cargo pants began.

  You stupid bastard.

  Keo sighed and pulled his left arm back, then grabbed the barrel of the rifle and jerked it out of the Bucky’s suddenly weak grip. Not that the kid seemed to realize he’d just lost his weapon, because he was too busy looking down at his gut, even as he groped frantically at it with one hand. His left was holding a knife that he now dropped so he could use it to try to help stanch the bleeding. Blood oozed freely through his fingers anyway.

  You stupid, stupid bastard.

  Keo clasped his left palm against the kid’s mouth to keep him from screaming, even though he was certain his victim didn’t have any strength left to do it. But Keo couldn’t take that risk, and he pressed hard until the Bucky started hyperventilating through his nostrils.

  Slowly, very slowly, Keo guided the dying man to the floor and sat him against the wall, bloodied hands clutching desperately at his stomach. Strips of blood trickled down his pant legs and pooled underneath him, and Keo could feel warm breath slamming desperately against his palm, over and over again.

  Those same dark blue eyes, the light in them fading little by little, searched out Keo’s and locked on.

  “I’m sorry,” Keo said. “You didn’t give me any choice. You went for the knife. You shouldn’t have gone for the knife, kid.”

  The Bucky didn’t say anything—not that he could anyway, with Keo’s hand over his mouth. Instead, his eyes fell down to his gut again, and tears dripped down his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Keo whispered again, and took his hand away from the Bucky’s mouth, put away the knife, and unslung the MP5SD.

  The kid was already drifting away, his eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to stay awake, when Keo shot him once in the forehead, the clink! of the brass casing bouncing against the thick concrete floor much louder than the pff! of the suppressed gunshot.

  Keo stood still and stared down at the kid. He wasn’t sure how long, but eventually he snapped out of it.

  “You stupid bastard,” Keo whispered before he grabbed the AR from the floor, then went through the dead body and came away with two spares for the rifle. He would have taken more—the Bucky carried four total—but Keo didn’t need the extra weight. Besides, if he had to resort to the rifle, he was screwed anyway.

  The Bucky was wearing a fancy radio system—rubber throat mic linked to a two-way portable Velcroed against his assault vest. The radio had limited range, but it was a decent alternative to the one he’d been carrying around and trying to reach Gaby with.

  Decent? Try better than nothing.

  Keo was unsnapping the comm rig from the body when the gunfire suddenly grew louder.

  What now?

  There was a reason he could suddenly hear every shot, because they were coming from inside the building.

  Keo unslung the MP5SD and stayed in a crouch, gripping the submachine gun while he listened. He tried to pinpoint where the shooting was coming from exactly. It seemed to be concentrated nearby, somewhere on the other side of the stairwell door.

  But the shooting didn’t last for very long. At least, not the one inside the building. Almost as quickly as it began, it ran its course and there was silence again, with just the faint pop-pop-pop of small arms originating from the street.

  Had the Buckies repelled yet another attack? It certainly sounded like it—

  The bang! of the stairwell door flying open made Keo jump, and he was standing up reflexively just as a man wearing all black—with an assault vest sporting a circled M on one of the pouches—strode inside. He looked harried and was bleeding from a bullet graze along his temple, and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Pete, get ready—”

&n
bsp; He stopped when he saw Keo standing over the dead Bucky.

  The next word out of the man’s mouth was, “Shit—” but he didn’t get the rest of the sentence out because Keo shot him three times in the chest from almost point-blank range.

  The man stumbled into the door even as it was closing on its own behind him, but he didn’t go down.

  Kevlar. Right.

  Fucking cheaters.

  Keo raised his submachine gun at the same time the man scrambled to do likewise with his own weapon, but Keo beat him to it and put the fourth round between his eyes. The man’s head snapped back and slammed with a reverberating thump! against the door behind him before he slid down to the floor.

  Keo stood in front of the body, barely moving, and listened to see if anyone had heard the sound of the Bucky’s head colliding with the door.

  He got his answer exactly thirteen seconds later when a voice called from the lobby, “John?” Then, shouting, “John!”

  Keo glanced down at the first Bucky he’d killed, then at the second one. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was who, especially after what the second man had said as he burst into the stairwell.

  “John! Pete!” The same voice, but this time it was closer. “John, answer me!”

  John’s dead, asshole.

  “Pete!”

  Oh, and so is Pete, for the record.

  Keo was reaching for John’s weapon, a P90 submachine gun, when the first shot pierced the door and zipped! two feet in front of his face before hitting the metal railing behind him and pinging! off it.

  He dove to the floor as another half dozen rounds punched through the slab of wood and filled the stairwell. Keo grunted as he crashed chest-first into the hard pavement and rolled away from the door. Not an easy feat with the MP5SD in his hands and the salvaged AR slung over his back, its sharp edges digging into his flesh. He didn’t stop until he’d gotten as far away from the line of fire as possible.

  Ping-ping-ping! as more rounds bounced off the railing and pek-pek-pek! as the rest pounded the concrete around him, digging large divots into the walls and floor. Keo hadn’t heard the gunshots, but that wasn’t a surprise because of their silenced weaponry. Even the P90 he’d been reaching for had a suppressor, making the submachine gun’s normally small barrel slightly longer.

  He scrambled to his feet and into a crouch before pointing his weapon at the door.

  Come on in, pal! I got something waiting for you!

  The shooter had ceased firing, leaving behind a door perforated with at least twenty or more holes spread evenly from top to bottom and right to left. Whoever was in the lobby didn’t just unload their entire magazine, they had also oscillated their fire to cover as much space as possible.

  Smart motherfucker.

  He waited for the shouter turned shooter to come inside to check if his gamble had paid off. Except the door remained closed, and although it had been badly shot up, still stayed in place by its hinges.

  Well? What’re you waiting for? Come on in and say hi!

  Keo thought he could see glimpses of black clothing moving across the holes, but he could only be sure that someone was definitely out there. Of course, he already knew that. After all, ghosts weren’t firing bullets at him.

  The firefight outside the building had continued on, oblivious to what was happening to Keo inside the stairwell. There were the occasional sounds of glass breaking, which was surprising because Keo had assumed that by now every glass that could be broken around the lobby must have been already, but apparently not.

  He wiped at a bead of sweat along his brow, then pushed all the way up to his feet and took a few more steps away from the door, not that it did anything to lessen his anxiety. And for good reason, too, because he was a sitting duck in here with only a thick wall behind him and nowhere to run if more than one person were to rush inside, guns blazing.

  Hell, they didn’t even have to do that. What was he going to do if they tossed a grenade into the stairwell? Considering the shape of the door, they wouldn’t even need to pry it open first. Could you squeeze a grenade through one of those bullet holes? There were a couple near the bottom that were just big enough…

  Keo glanced right, toward the stairs. Up was good. It was also the only direction left to him. He’d been hoping to find a better alternative down here, but that just went out the window. Besides the fact that the Buckies had, from the sounds of it, successfully pushed back another enemy charge, there was still that army out there waiting to say hi. He didn’t feel like introducing himself to strangers with guns. It was a good way to get killed.

  And we definitely don’t want that.

  So there was only one way left: up.

  Horse was also up there. Keo wondered what the thoroughbred was thinking right about now. How long had he left it standing up there on the fifth floor by itself? Ten minutes? Longer? He’d lost track of time. He wondered if horses did, too.

  Up. That was the way to go.

  The only way to go.

  He was counting the distance between the first step and his current location when the same man shouted from the other side of the stairwell door. “John! Pete! Answer me!”

  They’re dead, asshole. If they weren’t dead before, your little spray-and-pray would have killed them.

  “John! Pete!”

  “They’re dead,” a second voice said. This one sounded female, but it was too muffled for Keo to be sure. “He’s in there. It’s gotta be him.”

  My legend precedes me, Keo thought with a slight grin.

  “Shit,” the shouter said.

  “Do it,” the woman said, and the way she had said those two words, “Do it,” made Keo think she wasn’t talking about sewing.

  “Do it?” Do what?

  Then the lightbulb went off, and Keo’s grin faded.

  Oh, hell.

  He took off running toward the stairs.

  Shoulda stayed on the fifth floor, you big dummy!

  He had to jump over the first dead Bucky, which he did clumsily, and almost fell on his face but somehow managed to stay upright.

  Shoulda!

  He reached the first step and leapt up, passing the second step entirely and taking the third on the lunge, before aiming for the sixth one up ahead—

  Coulda!

  —when something crashed through the door, and before Keo could glance back to see what that “something” was, the explosion was ripping across the small room.

  But didnta!

  He was still in the air and about to land on that sixth step when the concussive force of the blast hit him from behind, along with a sea of concrete chunks that broadsided him from his left side.

  The impact sent him flying forward and up (How was that even possible?) until he slammed into the wall where the stair turned and landed in a crumpled heap on the cold halfway point between floors.

  His ears were ringing, and he wasn’t sure he still remembered how to breathe. His senses were overloaded, and thick gray and white clouds clogged up his senses. He couldn’t breathe without choking on pulverized concrete that covered him from head to toe, and he had to close his eyes to lessen the risk of damage to them.

  Somehow, some way, he managed to turn over onto his back. He’d lost both the MP5SD and the AR during his Superman takeoff, but weapons were the least of his concerns at the moment. Right now he had to struggle to breathe every tiny breath, and drums pounded mercilessly in both of his ears.

  Despite all that misery, he still heard the shooting. The incessant crackle of small arms, like someone was playing an orchestra, but instead of instruments they were using guns. He could hear them, but wasn’t able to tell if they were getting closer or not. They could have been coming from right next to him for all he knew. Or possibly even from the other side of the globe. Anything and everything was possible.

  He would get up if he could, but he barely had any control over his arms and legs, which made turning over onto his back earlier a minor miracle. On
e, unfortunately, that he had no idea how to replicate.

  Keo lay still and listened to the faded echoes of gunshots instead, letting everything be absorbed into the background. If he couldn’t get up and fight, at least he was going to enjoy the show…however long that lasted.

  Seven

  “You’re fucked.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Look around you.”

  “It’s a little hard to see. Who turned off the lights?”

  “You’re fucked. I’m fucked. We’re both fucked.”

  “Captain fucking Optimism.”

  “What?”

  “Just something a friend used to say in situations like these.”

  “You’ve been in situations like this before?”

  Keo chuckled and thought, Damn, how I wish I could say “no” to that one.

  He said instead, “Yeah. Once or twice.”

  “You better hope all that prior experience comes in handy if you wanna get out of this alive.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Greengrass.”

  “Seriously? Your name is Greengrass? Green like the color and grass like what my horse eats?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s a dumb name, that’s all. Is that your last name?”

  “Does it sound like a first name?”

  “How the hell should I know. We’re in Texas. I’ve seen crazier names. There was this guy near the panhandle named Thomas Tom. Swear to God. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as crazy as this guy in Mongolia where I was doing this thing for these people. Long story.”

  “It’s my surname.”

  “Everyone in Fenton uses surnames?”

  “Just the important ones.”

  “So what’re you doing with a surname?”

  The man sitting directly across from him in the darkness smirked. Or Keo thought he did, anyway. All he could really tell for sure was an oval-shaped outline of a face topped with brown hair that was sprinkled generously with gray.