Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  Up the street, a skirmish raged. National Guardsmen exchanged gunfire with unseen combatants who appeared to have them pinned down from above.

  It was unclear what the provocation was for the battle. The sound of other firefights echoed through the streets, spreading like the virus.

  Paul shifted into reverse.

  “Hold on” Jake shouted gripping Paul’s arm.

  Paul braked and turned to Jake who was already out of the vehicle, berretta drawn. He ran over to the soldier and felt for a pulse. Finding none, Jake pulled the rifle from underneath him and checked its magazine. He found two more magazines in the soldier’s flak jacket and then tucked the berretta in his back and carefully made his way to the van. Jake had been well trained and was weary of the windows overlooking the street.

  “We’re a little outgunned.” he said as he climbed into the van.

  The rifle was an M-16 A 2, standard military issue weapon made by Colt. This one was covered in the soldier’s warm blood which now speckled Jake’s white t-shirt. Jake had first used one of these back in ‘69. Through the years, there had been variations and modifications, but to have been in use by the military from Vietnam to Desert Storm and still be in use spoke volumes of the gun’s efficiency.

  They reversed back onto Central and continued west. Central was a divided roadway, with concrete sidewalks and drought-resistant plants up the center. The maze of streets all looked the same, blocked or embroiled in conflict.

  Central West appeared like the lesser of a whole host of evils. Behind them to the east, Jake and company could see conflicts spilling out onto Central, blocking their route in.

  Paul and Jake were sinking deeper into the quicksand.

  *

  “Sir, WiMax link incoming,” Toombs reported.

  Mount Weather had become the new Command Center for the DoD, NSA, and all top levels of government. It was a large, cavernous place with artificially-lit windows. They were props, illusions set in front of three-foot thick concrete walls meant to trick the mind.

  The complex was filled with high-tech gadgetry, huge supercomputers, and was outfitted with advanced communications capabilities. It was now the Base Station for NSA’s WiMAX.

  “Folkstone. We have confirmation from Albuquerque. Traffic-cam picked them up at Central Avenue North West and Edith Boulevard, heading west on Central,” reported the handler, now no longer just a raspy drawl.

  It was the first time Folkstone had ever laid eyes on the man.

  Folkstone pushed the thought to the back of his mind and talked to the image on the screen.

  “Vehicles match?”

  “Vehicle. They must have dumped one. Facial recognition gave a positive match on Paul Sardis and Jake Miller.”

  Folkstone turned to Toombs. “Find us an LZ on Central.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He turned back to the monitor, “We have a satellite feed?”

  “Soon. We’re redirecting local drones. Major, I have to warn you. Albuquerque’s a clusterfuck. We had a perimeter around Presbyterian Hospital at Central and Oak. Ring containment bullshit. We had to show due diligence. There was a breach, and now the whole city has turned into a fucking war zone. The constitution has provided us with substantial resistance.”

  He chuckled. It was not a sound Folkstone liked or admired, and he certainly didn’t want to watch it happen. He realized he preferred the previous and more anonymous method of communication.

  “Our boys are fighting their way back to our new perimeters.”

  “Emily. Split screen.” Folkstone commanded his onboard computer. He knew he should never have used his daughter’s name as a password but…. “Give me a map of Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

  A satellite image of the city popped up on a split screen with his handler.

  “Zoom in. Again.”

  “Go ahead and relay that intel,” Folkstone said.

  Green lines popped up on the map. The south perimeter was Kirtland Air Force Base, Albuquerque International Sunport, and the Rio Bravo Boulevard. The north was Ray Road, Tramway Road, and Tramway Boulevard, which also ran parallel to the east perimeter along the Sandia Mountains. The west perimeter was the Rio Grande itself.

  “Bridges to the west?” Folkstone asked.

  “We took them out. That’s when the shit hit the fan. First time we’ve dropped bombs on American soil since the civil war.”

  Folkstone paused as he considered that. “Toombs? LZ?”

  “Parking tower, southeast corner of 5th and Gold looks good. It’s a fitness center one block from Central.”

  “Emily, highlight parking tower at 5th and Gold.” The highlighted image popped up on the screen. “Looks good.”

  The man with the raspy drawl leaned in close to the camera, his face now filling his half of the monitor. “Wrap this shit up, Major. There’s talk we may send the whole city to hell. There are too many infected.”

  “Tell the powers that be we have friendlies in the target area.”

  Raspy drawl leaned in even closer. Folkstone could practically smell his fucking cologne. He realized that last statement sounded like an order.

  “Then take care of this shit or we may light you up with it.”

  Folkstone smiled. Threaten me. Right this moment I’d rather off you than this Jake Miller. He held his tongue.

  “Consider it done,” Folkstone grumbled.

  “Make it happen.”

  His half of the monitor went blank and the map filled the screen. Folkstone’s jaw tightened.

  That’s about how fast they’d be wiped off the map.

  Chapter 31

  The chopper’s drone echoed off the hard surfaces of the city. Steel, asphalt and concrete. Smooth marble and glass.

  There were several tall buildings around the six-story parking structure. The deeper they dropped into the concrete bowl, the greater the noise.

  “Looks like you have a reception committee, Major,” the pilot yelled.

  “I see them. Drop us in and set down on top of the building across the street to our west. Should be safe up there.”

  “The federal building?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sir. Three have already entered the structure, and I count two more at street level.” Borda yelled over the roar of the chopper.

  “Toombs.”

  Toombs opened a cache of weapons. It wasn’t the first time he’d set down in a hot landing zone.

  “Shhhit,” Borda exclaimed. “XM8. How the hell did you get those?”

  “Friend of a friend at Leonard Wood. Jones XM8 or M4?”

  “XM8 and as many drums as you can spare.”

  The baseline carbine assault weapon could fire 5.56 x 45mm NATO ammunition at a rate of 750 rounds per minute and could be used with a 30 round plastic box magazine or a 100 round, double drum mag. Jones’ weapon came with an integrated optical sight and the 1R laser aiming module illuminator.

  “Badass,” Jones exclaimed, checking the hardware.

  “Borda, I already know what you want.”

  Toombs handed him an XM8. The assault rifle was designed by Heckler and Koch for the US Military. Cheaper, lighter, and more reliable than both the M-16 and M-4 that it was designed to replace, the XM8 was a module gun made almost entirely of composites that could be reconfigured to service almost any tactical need.

  Borda couldn’t stop talking about this gun when it came out. He drove everybody crazy yammering about the 20” inch sharpshooter barrel. Toombs laughed when he handed it to him. Looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Borda smiled like a cat in a cage full of canaries. “This’ll work.”

  “Sir?”

  Folkstone raised an eyebrow. “Tried and true, son.”

  Toombs handed him the M-16.

  The skids touched down. The aft passenger door was already open.

  “Jones, take point,” Folkstone ordered.

  Jones hit the ground running. He advanced in a crouched position, pressi
ng against the wall of the ramp. He took a quick look over the concrete wall and raked the first man as he ascended the ramp to the top level. The man had been careless and undisciplined. His chest ripped open like a zipper on a fat man, and he dropped to the concrete, blood draining into the traction grids angled into the ramp.

  The helicopter lifted off kicking up a blinding dust storm as the others hit the wall. The first man had been rash. The others wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  Borda poked his head around the corner of the concrete wall trying to draw their fire so he could get a location. They didn’t bite. The burnt shells of a few cars were the only cover for the two men.

  Borda held up two fingers and signaled that he was going to cross to the other side of the ramp. He got into position, Jones in tight on his back. The team had been together a long time, and no one questioned the actions of another. Folkstone had been rigid about training, taking every opportunity to “get into the shit” as he called it.

  Borda bolted. This time the men below took the bait. Jones drew the butt stock of the gun in snug to his shoulder and opened up, and Toombs came up under his cover fire. He’d outfitted his own gun with the XM320 grenade launcher.

  He launched.

  The burnt shell of the vehicle jumped in smoke and flames, and one of the guns fell silent.

  The third gunman was up, retreating fast. He’d left his partner hanging halfway, predicting the outcome. Folkstone spat in disgust. He’d have executed his mother for that.

  Borda advanced down the ramp.

  Against a trained combatant, the retreating man should have timed, turned and fired, stalling the advancing enemy, but this man did not. He was running full out for the ramp to the fourth level. He must have felt the gun trained on his back, because he dodged fast and ran towards the wall.

  Borda eased down to one knee and shouldered his weapon. His breathing slowed until his respiration and heart rate were normal. He might as well have been reading. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. A single shot went clean threw the third man’s center body mass, but he continued to run, one hand holding his chest, the other dangling at his right side. His body canted like a zombie on Vicodin.

  This time Borda fired a three round burst and the man dropped in a lifeless heap.

  The team was already flanking him like a well oiled machine. They were fast but guarded. They advanced unopposed to the ground level where they took up positions against the concrete walls on either side of the parking tower’s entrance. Borda fell in beside Toombs.

  “Why didn’t I get one of those?” he joked, looking at Toombs’ weapon.

  “Could only get one,” he said, jamming another grenade in the single shot, side loading XM 320.

  “Ready?” Borda asked.

  “Let’s do it.” Toombs nodded to Folkstone and Jones.

  The team moved down the ramp and into the street unopposed. Folkstone didn’t waste time, and advanced with his team down 5th Street toward Central Avenue.

  *

  The overpass said Santa Fe RR, but it was Amtrak that used the rail corridor. Central merged into a single road at First Street past the rail overpass.

  Between First and Second Streets, the theatre district was relatively quiet. The Sunshine Theatre was mostly untouched except for the shattered glass doors. It was a beautiful red brick building with intricate sandstone detailing. Gargoyles stood watch above the doors, and an American flag flew upside down from the rooftop.

  They were now in the center of downtown. The buildings were taller with more windows and the architecture much more grand. Jake watched the passing sea of sinister reflections, queasy at the sight of so many high vantage points, all perfect for snipers.

  He had a feeling they were being watched.

  Chapter 32

  Jones still had point as they rapidly advanced towards Central surrounded by burning cars and buildings. The heat from the fires could be felt from the center of the street. There was a whole gamut of ambush possibilities. They had seen two more dark figures from the helicopter, and they had just killed three of the figures’ friends.

  Borda took the rear, falling in behind Toombs, the Major and Jones. His gut told him to check the darkened alleyway. A small dumpster sat in the shadow of the two buildings that flanked the alley’s entrance. There’s no time, but he knew he should make time.

  “Borda. Second floor window looks like a good position for a shot.”Folkstone said pointing across the street facing east.

  It was perfect. Slight elevation with a bank of windows that ran the entire length of the second floor. The building didn’t come to a 90 degree angle at the corner, but had a gentle curvature that would give him a beautiful view down the center of the roadway.

  “Radio contact only from here on out,” Folkstone barked. “Jones. Take position here. You’ll have good cover in these cars.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Folkstone hooked the earpiece over his right ear, adjusting the mouthpiece into a comfortable position.

  “Toombs, you’re with me.”

  Folkstone and Toombs cut across the street to a low, three story structure at the northeast corner of 5th and Central.

  “Major. I have a visual. Two blocks down on Central. White van heading our way.”

  “Roger that,” Folkstone and Toombs disappeared into the torched shell of what had once been a bakery. Shards of glass from the large display windows crunched under foot.

  “Hey, mister.”

  The voice was soft, yet stern. They could barely hear it over their radios. Jones turned. He’d been flanked by a young girl, possibly twelve or thirteen. Her clothes were dirty. She had a beautiful olive complexion. Pretty young thing with a hard look on her face.

  “Get the fuck out of here kid,” Jones shouted.

  She didn’t move, just looked at him with an icy stare.

  “You killed my parents.”

  Jones knew that she was one of the figures on the street below the parking tower. He also knew children in warzones would sometimes pick up arms and use them to kill. He also knew there was one more figure. The girl appeared unarmed. He spun round, looking for her partner.

  They’d outflanked him. A young Mexican girl and her brother. Jones knew the boy had him cold. He opened fire, swinging his assault rifle left, hoping the kid would jam. He sprayed the girl, blowing her apart as the boy pulled the trigger with steady hands.

  Borda knew exactly what happened. I should have checked that dumpster. He repositioned for a clean shot. He was just a kid. Maybe fifteen, but he’d killed his brother-in-arms and Borda felt responsible.

  Borda shook it off and scoped the young boy.

  The boy looked down at the red dot over his heart. By the time he looked up and saw the shooter in a second floor window across the street, it was halfway there.

  The single shot pierced his chest, his knees buckled under him, and his body crumpled. He dropped to the concrete, face to face with his sister.

  “You fuckin done Borda?” Folkstone barked into his headset. “He fucked up. Now pull your head out of your ass and get back into position. Target’s approaching.”

  *

  Jake and Paul crept past Second Street on Central. They heard a loud blast and then a single gunshot echoing off the city’s facade. It was like being in a room with surround sound. The origin was hard to pinpoint. The only thing certain was that it was close.

  There was an empty lot on one side of Third Street directly across from an eight story building. Jake almost ruled out any possible shot from above the oversized arched windows on the ground floor, with a slim chance of a shot from the small second floor windows.

  A modern building with lots of glass, stainless steel, and gently sloped parapets at the roofline stood on the corner of Central and Third.

  Jake spotted the barrel of a rifle poking out from the second floor patio.

  “Stop! Back up!” Jake yelled. “We’re driving into an ambush.”

  Jake pointed
at the roofline.

  Just then, two armed men climbed out from behind the low brick wall of the parking lot they’d just passed. They walked straight up the center of the street like urban gunfighters, weapons lowered in front of them, ready to shoot from the hip.

  “Two behind us, Jake!”

  “They’re not shooting. They want the van. Keep going!”

  Jake readied the M-16 and kept it low and out of view. He didn’t want this fight. Not now. Think, Goddamnit!

  He saw more guns resting on the metal flashing on the roof of the People’s Flower Shop. Two more men and a woman came in from a pedestrian shopping area north on Fourth Street. A large tri-axle transport truck blocked the way south on Fourth Street. It had been firebombed, and other cars had been rolled into position on the sidewalks, making the way impassable.

  About a hundred yards up Central, three men exited a small shop and walked into the middle of the street, marching toward Jake and Paul with confidence, certain their superior numbers would persuade the two armed men to surrender the vehicle. They needed it running.

  “Major. Three men moving toward target.”

  “Ambush saves us some work.”

  “Run those fuckers over!” Jake yelled, as he smashed out the rear passenger side window. He opened fire on the two men and women advancing from the pedestrian shopping area, bracing against the front passenger seat. They were slow and had not expected resistance. Jake hit one of the men in the leg. The others dived for cover.

  Paul barreled toward the men in the center of the road. One man held his ground, lowering the shotgun that was slung over his shoulder. The blast was deafening in the glass and concrete bowl. The shotgun’s spray widened with distance, and Paul ducked just before the windshield was blown out and glass fragments rained over his back. The van swung wildly left mowing down one of the fleeing men, then plowed over a planter and crashed into a storefront. Paul was thrown into the dash, while Jake was tossed around the back of the van like a pinball.

  One of the men he tried to cut down with the van was running up on the driver’s side door. Paul came up with the Sig drawn. The man had not expected him to get up so fast. Paul aimed and squeezed the trigger, hitting him three times in the chest. His body twisted right and dropped to the ground. Paul looked down at the Sig he held white-knuckled. No time to diagnose what he was feeling.