The day after: An apocalyptic morning

by Jessy Cruise

  While the fueling crew put the hose in the helicopter's inlet and began to pump, Steve maneuvered the handcart next to the right skid and set the egg down on the ground so that the two hooks were facing upward. Behind him two of his helpers were carrying an enormous coil of rope. This coil contained fifteen hundred feet of rope and was neatly wound up so that it would (probably) play out without snagging or hanging up. This was no small accomplishment considering that the rope was not all one piece but many spliced together from scavenged supply rooms and garages throughout the town. It was not even all the same diameter. In the test run however, it had worked perfectly, the coils unwinding just as Paul - their rope expert - had told them they would.

  "Let's get these doors off," Skip told Jack as they climbed out. "Steve, can we borrow a couple of socket wrenches?"

  "Help yourself," Steve told them, waving them towards the shed.

  It took five minutes to remove the two side doors from the aircraft, ten minutes to fuel it up, but by the time that was done, the egg was still not attached. Skip sat in the cab of the aircraft, nervously monitoring the VHF frequency. So far nothing had come across. "I don't mean to rush you or anything, Steve," he said worriedly, "but they're about to make first contact out there."

  "I'm going as fast as I can," Steve said. "Don't worry, they'll be fine."

  With the assistance of his helpers Steve hung the tank from the cargo hook on the bottom of the helicopter, utilizing the larger of the two hooks that had been welded to the tank. It hung there neatly, swaying back and forth a little bit but otherwise not moving. Once that was accomplished, Steve tied one end of the long coil of rope to the smaller of the hooks, the one that was on the welded strip of metal. The other end of the rope, which came from the inside of the coil, he stretched out and passed under the helicopter, threading it between the bottom and the hanging tank. He then passed it through the two open doors and tied it off, using a knot that would not easily come loose when jerked from below. The rest of the rope was set in the passenger compartment of the helicopter and strapped down with bungee cords.

  "You're in business," Steve told Skip. "Make it count."

  "You know it," Skip replied, climbing back into the aircraft. He made no move as of yet to go through the start-up procedure.

  "Aren't we gonna go back up?" Jack asked. "The battle's about to start."

  "Not yet," Skip told him. "We'll stay down until it's time to make a nape run. We don't want them to see the egg until we're just about to use it. Get on the radio and let them know that we're standing by for an air strike when they need it."

  Mick, who had been the one to exercise and train with the ground forces over the last two weeks, was technically in charge of them at that level. He was in one of the trenches with eight other people, holding on to one of the automatic weapons and trying to keep himself calm. He listened to Jack's report over his VHF radio and acknowledged it. "Did you copy that, Christine?" he asked his second in command, the leader of the platoon that was going to make first contact.

  Christine and her understaffed platoon of twenty-four women and three men were deployed in a series of three trenches atop of two hills overlooking the alleged avenue of advance. Though Skip had assured her that she would be the first to engage the enemy, there was still no sign of them. "I copy," she said. "And I'm still clear on the horizon."

  She sighed a little, wishing for the comfort that came from having Skip and Jack hovering above them, keeping an eye on things. Though she understood why they were holding back at the moment, she still didn't like it. She felt out of touch.

  "Movement ahead," said Anna, who had once lived with these monsters and who was now assigned to Christine's platoon. She was in the adjoining trench but her voice carried easily over. "Three men, coming around the hill at eleven o'clock."

  Christine, along with everyone else, turned her eyes that way and, after a moment, spotted the men. They were about ten feet apart, rifles held out before them. Their formation was somewhat loose and they were moving very rapidly, almost at a run. Within a few seconds, other men began to appear, both from around that hill and the hills to the sides of it. They passed out of the gaps and moved forward, all of them moving at that rapid, almost careless pace. As Skip had said, the line stretched for a considerable distance.

  Christine reported her sighting over the VHF frequency. "They're outside of firing range right now but closing fast," she said. "Estimate contact in two to three minutes. We'll hit near the center of their line but the flanks are out of our range. They stretch all the way over to..." she consulted her map for a moment, "to grid D-delta five. Paula, you'll be able to hit their left flank when they move in."

  "Copy that," Paula said, her voice almost supernaturally calm.

  "Mick, their right side should swing right towards you if they keep on course," Christine said.

  "Copy, Christine," he said, his own voice a little more tense. "They'll probably move to flank you when you start firing though. We'll hold here and catch them in a crossfire if that happens."

  "Copy," she said, putting her radio down. She looked over the muddy hills and the trees to her soldiers. "All right," she told them. "The fun's about to start. Riflemen, start picking targets."

  Those with the hunting rifles aimed out through firing ports in the camouflaged sandbags and began to scan their area of responsibility. The automatic and semi-automatic riflemen also put their barrels through firing ports but they knew that it would be a few minutes until their time came. Everyone watched tensely as the men continued to advance towards them. They moved through trees and over small mudfalls, weaving in and out but always getting closer.

  "Hold your fire until I say so," Christine said. "We'll wait until they're inside three hundred yards."

  They waited, fingers tight upon triggers, eyeballs glued to scopes or peering over sights. They watched as the men who wanted to enslave them, to rape them, to steal their food and take their children advanced in a neat, rapidly moving line. Soon the first of them crossed the invisible line that marked the three hundred yard range. And then more passed over it.

  "All right," Christine said, just loud enough to be heard. "From this point on, we're off radio silence. Riflemen, fire at will!"

  More than twenty fingers squeezed twenty triggers, all within a second of each other. The noise was tremendous, a shattering, drawn out explosion that rolled off across the landscape. Before the first bullets even hit, the riflemen were working their bolts, putting in the next rounds.

  The front lines of the militia easily saw the muzzleflashes of the first barrage. It would have been quite hard to miss it. As such, most of them dove to the ground before the bullets could arrive on target, their instincts hurling them into the mud almost before their brains could comprehend why. Several people however, either did not see the flashes or did not react to them quickly enough. Of these, two of them were hit, the bullets slamming into their bodies with meaty thuds.

  "Take cover!" squad leaders yelled as whizzing projectiles came flying in. "Get the fuck down!"

  The shots landed in the mud and plunked into trees, coming in waves as the enemy on the hillside ahead fired and then jacked in new rounds. Those in the open began to crawl for cover, looking for anything that would shield them: a rock, a tree, a hole. Most found such things but a few were hit as they scrambled along the ground. One corporal had his head blown clean off by a shot from a .460 magnum rifle. Another took two .30-06 rounds in the side.

  Stu and Colby, both of whom were safely out of range of the gunfire, took cover behind a fallen log. They watched as the first few volleys came rolling in and as the men up front tried to get out of the path. The sound of the gunfire echoed around them, badly out of synch with the pattern of flashes because of the range and the slow speed of sound. This sound was contrasted by the sharper cracks of the militia rifles as the men began to return fire.

  Stu didn't even bother clearing his orders with Colby. He simply grabbed the radio and
began to bark into it. "First platoon," he yelled, "pour fire on that fuckin hillside. Third platoon, you guys move up and get ready to advance to the right flank. Fifth platoon, you get ready to advance to the left flank. Everyone else, you'll be covering fire for the advance. Let's get to it. We need to take that fuckin hill now!"

  Colby simply watched in amazement as the men scrambled around and got into position in response to Stu's commands. It simply didn't occur to him that he was supposed to be the one giving the orders.

  "Keep the pressure on them," Christine yelled into her own tactical radio. "Keep firing. Try to hold them in place."

  No one answered her but they all did as she asked. The riflemen worked like machines. They aimed out over the area where the return fire was coming from, unleashed a round, worked their bolt, and then did it all over again, setting a pace of only a few seconds per shot. Every fifth or sixth round, depending on the size of their magazines, they would reach down to a box of shells between their knees and shove in a fresh load. They had no way of knowing if they were hitting anyone, but the barrage had already had the desired effect. It had stopped the advance of the militia, forcing them to start setting up a charge to take the hill.

  The return fire was quite intense. From below the sound of uncountable rifle shots and the chattering of automatic assault weapons could be heard crackling like firecrackers. Bullets slammed into their positions ruthlessly, riddling the sandbags that they hid behind with holes and making frightening thuds each time one hit. Other bullets whizzed over the top of them or slammed into the mud around them. So far, the sandbags were doing their job and no one had been hit.

  Christine watched through her firing port, her own weapon unfired as of yet. She saw well over a hundred muzzleflashes winking at her from down below and she took a moment to worry that one of those bullets just might find its way through the small hole and into her face. The odds were against it, that was true, but that was how Hector had been hit. She put this out of her mind as an irrelevant worry and hauled out her VHF radio.

  "We're in contact," she said into it, mostly for Skip's benefit since the other platoons would easily be able to see and hear what was going on. She did not identify herself on the radio because she knew that everyone who was listening to this frequency would recognize her voice. "They're pinned down at the moment behind the hills to the north of us. Heavy return fire, no casualties at this point. It looks like they're setting up for an envelopment maneuver to the east and west of us."

  "We'll hit 'em as soon as they start to move," Paula's voice assured her. "How's that left flank looking though?"

  "We'll be able to hit them from here," said Mick, who was stationed on that side. " Christine, once they start to swing around on my side and we engage them, we'll lay a crossfire down on them. Try to hold your position but don't hesitate to get the fuck out if they close to within a hundred yards."

  "Got it," Christine said, wincing as a bullet zinged off the top of the sandbag above her, showering her with a small spray of mud. "Skip, are you there?"

  "I'm here," he said. "We're firing up the engine right now."

  "We could use a little air strike if you're ready," she told him.

  "Just tell me the place," he said, "and I'll be there in three minutes."

  Skip lifted off carefully, mindful of the tank of explosive material slung just beneath them. Jack was strapped into his usual place on the passenger side and Sherrie, one of Steve's assistants, was holding on to the bungee cords that secured the rope for dear life. Sherrie's leg had healed up enough for her to walk but not enough for her to participate in combat out in the trenches. After her last pitiful performance under fire, she sought redemption by volunteering to be the spotter and rope gatherer for the drop missions. This was only her second flight in the chopper and she was still quite terrified of it. Especially with no door on and especially in combat conditions. In her mind she kept seeing them crashing to the earth and burning to death.

  "How you doing, Sherrie?" Skip asked her over the intercom.

  "Just bitchin," she said, her voice broken.

  "Glad to hear it," he told her. "Three minutes to target."

  Skip flew to the south of town, out over the canyon, and brought them up to an altitude of 6000 feet above sea level, which would put them about 1800 feet above the battle area. He then cut back to the north, heading for the battle zone at forty knots. Jack had the master map spread out before him. Due to the wind in the cabin that taking the doors off had produced, he was having a little difficulty keeping it flat.

  Skip took a few glances at the map as he flew, matching the terrain below him with the features on the map. Though he could plainly see the flashes of gunfire from the trenches and the answering fire from the militia, he wanted to take no chances on dropping in the wrong place. He was going to put his load exactly where Christine wanted it. There would be no repeat of his Iraqi experience here.

  As he came over the battlefield itself, he was able to see the tiny figures of the militia below them. They were huddled behind the trees and hiding behind logs, firing back at the hillside that they had been engaged from. As Christine had theorized, it looked like they were setting up to try to flank the hill on both sides, unknowing of course that there were occupied trenches on both of the flanks. Well, they would find out about that the hard way, wouldn't they?

  He saw his target area ahead. Behind a group of logs and small hills directly across from Christine's platoon were twenty or thirty Auburnites. They were part of the group providing covering fire for the coming advance and were much closer together than was healthy for them. They were the group that had been hit first it seemed. He could see a few dead bodies lying in front of them. No more than three feet separated most of the men. Skip flew towards them, slowing his airspeed. His intent was to hover right over the top of them.

  "You ready to spot for me, Sherrie?" Skip asked her.

  "It's what I live for," she said, reluctantly releasing her hold on the rope and crawling forward. As horrid a thought as it was, she pushed her face outside of the missing door and peered downward. Skip and Jack, while hovering directly over the target, would not be able to see it, but she would. The wind buffeted her violently, threatening to rip the headset from her head. Ice crystals pelted her neck painfully. Below she could see the entire battlefield, stretched out like some three-dimensional map. She plainly saw nearly two hundred militia in various positions, many of them with rifles winking at the trenches where the Garden Hill forces were deployed.

  Skip described for her what the target area looked like, explaining that he was now almost directly over the top of it. She looked at the confusing blur of brown and green below and finally spotted what he was talking about. A group of men huddled behind some logs, firing their guns. "I've got them," she said into her headset.

  "Are you sure?" he asked her, not meaning to be insulting, just wanting to be sure.

  "I'm sure," she said. "Go forward a little and to the right."

  Skip, who was now in a hover, eased forward and edged the machine just a tad to the right.

  Stu had taken note that the helicopter had returned a few minutes before but was otherwise ignoring it. Instead he concentrated on whether all of his men were in position for the flanking attacks he was about to send into motion. Everything looked about right so...

  "What the fuck is on the bottom of that helicopter?" Colby asked, putting a set of binoculars to his eyes.

  "What?" Stu asked, alarmed. He looked up and was able to see that there was a definite change in the normal shape of the aircraft. It was hovering, moving slowly over their troops, as if... as if positioning itself. What the hell?

  "It looks like a gas tank out of a car," Colby said, shaking his head. "What the fuck?"

  At the words "gas tank" Stu stiffened. Anything that the Garden Hills fucks made out of a gas tank and suspended above troops with a helicopter could only be something bad, something that went bang. He looked directly below wher
e the machine was positioning itself. "Oh shit," he muttered, grabbing for the radio. "First platoon," he screamed into it. "You need to pull back now!"

  "Now," Sherrie said when he was directly overhead. "Right now!"

  "Got it, Sherrie," Skip said calmly, his hand reaching for the lever that released the hook. Before pulling it he keyed his radio, which was set on the VHF frequency. "Are you ready, Christine?" he asked her.

  "We're ready," she assured him.

  "It's on the way," he said and pulled the lever.

  The tank dropped like a rock, straight down, picking up speed according to the laws of gravity. Below, the men were trying to get turned around so they could crawl free of the drop zone but they would not, could not have enough time. The tank pulled the rope out behind it, uncoiling it neatly just as Paul had intended. When it reached the end of the rope the 120-pound tank jerked to a sudden halt from more than a hundred miles per hour. This was more than enough pressure to rip the flimsy piece of steel down its weld like a zipper. The tank ripped in half and fifteen gallons of napalm spread out and began to fall 300 feet above the retreating troops.

  Just before the terminal snap of the tank released the gelatinous concoction, Christine and two other squad leaders opened up with their M-16s, aiming for the area just below the tank. All had switched their magazines over to ones containing tracer rounds only. The red phosphorus streams looked almost like laser beams. Two of them intersected the falling napalm and set it alight. There was a solid whoomph sound as the weapon ignited and a second later the burning gel fell over the formation below.