by Неизвестный
“Enticing.”
“He’s...reasonable.”
“I don’t deal with the Devil.”
“Plain Janes usually don’t.”
Josie gave a small laugh. “You expect that to work?”
“It was worth a—”
Josie stuck her hand through the doors, firing at Violet.
“Nice,” Violet said, hiding behind a table as Josie brought her gun back in. A hail of machine-gun fire burst through the doors as Josie looked around the kitchen. The stoves had obviously been used. Some of them looked modified, cobbled together with whatever kitchen supplies the Martians could salvage. Josie’s eye rested on one stove in particular.
The cloud was thick from the storm front coming through. Jack heard the distant rumble of thunder and the occasional flash of light in the distance. It was dangerous to stay in the clouds, but Adam had the advantage otherwise. The Liberator was durable, faster, more maneuverable, and had better weapons. Jack noticed something coming into view. Adjusting the plane, he raised its nose, coming toward it. The Liberator came into his gun sights. Jack opened fire. The bullets streaked across the sky, approaching the growing shadow. Jack adjusted the plane to match the trajectory of the enemy, keeping up a constant stream of bullets.
The Liberator appeared to freeze as Jack came closer. Suddenly, it flipped upside-down. Jack continued firing, but as he adjusted, the Liberator flew at him, full-force. The two streams of bullets passed each other. Over the roar of the engine, Jack heard the hideous sound of bullets striking metal as the Liberator soared underneath Jack’s plane, the bottoms of each plane facing each other.
“Nice shooting, Jack,” Adam’s voice said over the radio. “If it weren’t for my armor...how about you?” Jack craned his neck back, looking up at the turbojet mounted on the back of the fuselage. Smoke billowed from it, wafting behind him as he flew. It would be impossible to hide from Adam now. Worse, the plane felt like one of the wings had taken damage. “It’s alright, Jack. The Fallen Angel would’ve tortured you and Josie on film for days. It’s better this way. You deserve this death, here among the sky and the clouds.”
Kalen Tengel had gone back and forth on the wrist-radios. He ultimately decided to give the Last Outlaws one final weapon to use, if it ever looked like they were going to be captured.
As Apache Knight took a left onto the uncompleted Main Street, he recognized how badly the situation was deteriorating.
He glanced down the street to see if he could spot Hunter Noir. Looking down the street, with the bulldozers, cranes, the steamroller, and the unfinished house frames, Apache couldn’t help thinking he was beginning to see the threads unraveling.
Smoke and mirrors.
The puppet strings of the Fallen Angel.
A peek behind the Wizard’s curtain.
Apache reached out a gloved hand, switching frequencies on the wrist-radio. With an open line, he felt his heart beating as he opened his mouth. “Masada. One. One-A, Two-B. Hammer.”
He ripped the watch off and hurled it into the street as far as he could, before continuing to run toward the hospital.
The problem wasn’t so much the first hit. If anything, the first hit was the easiest. You kept moving, you moved forward, you diffused the impact. Mr. Mask had learned that long ago. The problem was when you got hit, then took another, and another. When the third hit came in, you started to feel the first one, then the second, and soon all you could feel was the pain. Your world dissolved into the pain, and everything but your opponent and the agony vanished.
The Skull was good.
Mr. Mask had spent years smacking his arms against wood and stone. His years of conditioning helped protect him from some of the Skull’s strikes.
But the strikes were strong, and the Skull was quick. His blocks were precise and small. No extra effort was expended, and while Mr. Mask began to feel his lungs burning and his world growing dim, the Skull just kept coming. They moved about the deck, oblivious to the sound of the armored turrets whirling slowly to face the town.
Sensei Yoritomo taught Mr. Mask to stay low. Flying moves and kicks were dangerous. They impressed spectators and girls. They looked stylish, but their benefit was minimal in combat. The attacker gave up everything for one major blow.
As Mr. Mask dodged a left baton only to be struck with the right, he knew he had to take a chance.
Pushing off with his right foot, Mask shot his left knee into the air as high as he could to help build elevation and momentum. He lunged off the ground, bringing his right foot forward. Striking out with a right kick, he hit the Skull’s left wrist as he moved to block. Landing, Mask spiraled his arm, wrenching the Skull’s left hand downward. The baton clattered to the deck.
The Skull spun as Mask planted himself, striking Mask in the side of the gas mask with an elbow. Mask shifted to face his enemy, but a second strike from the stick at the same spot made him see stars. With his balance lost just for a second, Mr. Mask felt the terrifying strike from the Skull hit the back of his knee. Mask felt himself slump to the deck as a final strike from the steel baton hit the back of his head. He crashed down, barely having enough sense to turn himself over before the Skull could jump on his back.
If he died, he would die facing his enemy.
Violet stepped into the kitchen, her Thompson leveled. She’d used up all her grenades, but the automatic fire of her gun still was more than a match for poor Josie Taylor. Violet scanned the kitchen. Something far to her right moved. Violet pivoted in time to see the flare of Josie’s jacket against the door.
Without a smile, Violet pulled the trigger.
Hunter Noir dashed down the street, ignoring the unfinished buildings, bulldozers, cement trucks, and other engineering vehicles. Hunter focused on the road, scanning for traces of Apache Knight.
In the center of the road, he found one.
Hunter was going to ignore it, to see it simply as a discarded item of clothing, a careless error left by a sloppy pretender, but there was something that stopped him. Approaching the watch, he noticed a curious red light blinking on it. Something about that light gave Hunter Noir pause.
He stopped running, and picked it up.
There was a slight beeping sound emanating in tandem with the red light.
Hunter looked around. Between two houses, at just the right angle, he could see part of the Alamo.
“No...”
Josie ran down the hall as the kitchen exploded in the haze of an orange fireball. The shockwave sent her flying into the wall. Forcing herself up, Josie pulled out her gun.
Momma always did say electric stoves were safer, she thought, returning to the kitchen. But nothing beats gas. She cautiously peeked into the kitchen wreckage, created when she released the gas for every stove she could find, flooding the kitchen with enough to be ignited by the spark from Violet’s Thompson.
Josie stepped inside. Shame about the jacket, though, she thought, stepping over the diversion, now in tatters. As she carefully navigated the wrecked kitchen, she saw the prone body of Violet King splayed out on the floor.
“What will the boys say?” Josie asked, kicking Violet’s gun away.
“Those I fight, Jack...those I fight...” Adam Holiday’s voice echoed thought the radio. Jack turned and prepared for a final assault. He fired on the Liberator, which turned to escape. “You might have been better than I thought.” The Liberator was slow to turn this time. Whatever advanced maneuverability the Martian tech had given it seemed to be gone now. Jack stayed on its tail. “You still listenin’ Jack? I didn’t get your radio, did I?”
“No,” Jack responded, a plan suddenly forming in his mind as Adam turned. The plane shook. “Gonna miss me, Adam?”
“Course I am.” There was something different about Adam’s voice. Adam fired at Jack. Jack kept flying straight, avoiding the gunfire. “Hard to say you ever imagined dying from alien technology as a kid, right?”
“In a German plane,” Jack replied, feeling bull
ets strike his wings. He grunted, setting a collision course. “With a Japanese tactic.”
Adam paused. “Why not?” he asked, zooming faster. “There are worse ways to go.”
Jack’s hand shifted as the Liberator came closer. “Not for me.” Activating the ejector seat, Jack flew out of the cockpit as the Heinkel rocketed forward underneath him, smashing into the Liberator. There was an explosion of fire below, as Jack pulled the ripcord. Parachute deployed, Jack watched the fiery wreckage plummet to the Mexican landscape far below. As he floated down, he watched to see if maybe the Martians had outfitted the Liberator with an ejection seat. As the wreckage spilt apart on its descent, Jack shifted his and started wondering if Adam Holiday instead just had a parachute and was waiting to for a good time to jump out.
As the wreckage fell, Jack reasoned Adam was waiting a long time.
The Skull advanced on a prone Mr. Mask. Mask rolled sideways, grabbing for the loose baton. The Skull slammed down with his own stick, striking Mr. Mask’s hand. Mask backed off. The two enemies stared silently at each other as the ship’s computer finished moving its entire armament into position. As the last gun locked in on Apache Knight’s signal, the guns erupted, sending their entire battery raining down on Aragones.
On the deck, the Skull stared down at Mr. Mask.
Apache ran desperately, the hospital finally in sight. Behind him, Aragones disappeared in a cacophony of fire and splinters, shattering into the sky, as the Alamo emptied its armament onto the town. Apache chanced a glance back. There was no Hunter, only the sight of the soda shop, the baker’s, the school, the cinema, and the rest of the buildings being destroyed in a symphony of chaos. All the memories that would’ve been forged there, all the families, all the children that would grow there were erased in a haze of destruction.
He had seen this before.
The only difference was, last time it was aliens committing the destruction.
The Earth trembled at the Alamo’s assault. As the smoke and dust billowed out from the ruins, Apache turned and ran on, the wave of ash chasing him.
The Skull raised his baton.
Mr. Mask held his arms up, a defensive posture. The discarded Eskrima stick was on the deck just out of reach of Mask’s left foot. The Skull came in with a swipe. Mr. Mask went for a block. He grabbed the baton, tugging at it, trying to wrench the Skull down to his level. The Skull’s footing was too firm. A low center of gravity made it harder for Mask, on his back, to move the Skull.
The Skull yanked the baton up. Mask went for a kick, but the Skull caught it with his free hand. Mask went to twist it free, but the Skull pulled him closer, forcing Mask to lie on his upper back. He tried rolling, but the Skull’s grip was tight. Mask looked up as the Skull calculated his next move. He had the advantage, but he’d tried to use the baton once before and Mask nearly had him. If he tried again, Mask might be luckier. He needed something to give him an advantage, a way to strike without giving up his position.
The Skull’s eyes flitted off to the side.
The sword.
The Skull took a step forward, tugging Mask. Before he moved, Mask swiped out with his left leg, lifting it. The tip of his heel managed to touch the baton. Rolling it with one quick motion, he flicked it toward the Skull’s feet. As the Skull’s foot came down on the deck, it hit the round baton. For just a second, the Skull was off-balance. In that second, his opponent pulled his leg in. Off-balance, the Skull went down as Mask sat up, reaching out. Grabbing the Skull, he twisted his body, bringing the Skull down to the deck while grabbing a baton. Rolling away from the sword, Mr. Mask brought the baton up to the Skull’s throat, catching him in a modified choke as he pressed down on the Skull’s head. The Skull flailed, but as Mask pushed down on his opponent’s neck, the Eskrima stick began putting pressure on the Skull’s throat. Even the metal neck guard couldn’t defend from the pressure. Flailing wildly, the Skull tried to hit Mask or roll away, but Mask kept his head down, wrapping his legs around the Skull’s torso. Pressing harder and harder, Mr. Mask tightened the vice grip.
The Skull tried prying the metal bar away. With all his strength, he dug his fingers between the bar and his throat. Behind his mask, things began to get hazy. On his back, he looked up at the sun, so bright, so warm, but the sky around it seemed to be disappearing. It was flashing, then getting dark. Clouds rotated. He kept focusing on the sun though. He held onto that golden warmth even as that gold turned to white.
Then to gray.
Mr. Mask squeezed one more time.
The Skull’s hand grew limp.
Mask kept squeezing.
The Skull’s hand fell to the deck. Mask squeezed a while longer to make sure the man was dead. When he was sure, he stood up and grabbed his sword, returning it to its sheath. Then, looking at his fallen enemy, he grabbed the other baton, rolled the Skull over on his back, and crossed his arms, placing a baton in each of his fallen foe’s hands.
The shockwave and debris had done more than Apache expected. As he reached the front of the hospital, the building was already starting to collapse. Cracks and gashes ran along the wall. Broken glass surrounded the building, shining in the sun like a shallow moat. Three of the ambulances had been overturned, and one was half-blocking the entrance, which already sagged like a broken skeleton.
Apache dashed around to the side of the building. Rounding the corner, he closed in on the black fire escape. With one powerful leap, he reached the first rung on the ladder, jumping to the first platform. Pulling himself up and over, he raced to the top of the building. At the roof, he stepped on top of the largest part of the building still standing. He looked out over the town for one moment. The smoke rising from the wreckage obscured the Alamo, and the setting sun combined with the smoke gave the town a nightmarish glow. Apache’s heart bulged into his throat. The Alamo seemed so far away. Somewhere, another building collapsed in a blaze. The smell of gunpowder and smoke filled his lungs.
Everything.
All to ruin.
Violet?
Skull?
Adam?
Any of them?
Apache turned to his left. Far across the roof stood the service entrance to the hospital. Above it was a skeletal metal edifice supporting a large circular radio dish. Apache dashed toward it. If he could get inside, just activate it, send the signal, reach the Martians...
Running, Apache felt his long scarf billowing in the wind. His fedora nearly flew off, but as his trench coat fanned out behind him like a trailing black cloud, he focused on the service door, growing closer, closer, he could almost reach out and touch it—
“Apache!”
Hunter Noir’s voice boomed with all the authority of a man with a gun. Apache stopped. He felt the gun aimed at his back. He didn’t need to turn around to see it. Hunter’s footsteps came closer. Apache stared at the door. He could have reached it in four more steps.
Apache couldn’t look around. He wouldn’t. “Figured the assault would get you.”
“Lots of construction equipment around. Those’re built to last.” Hunter stepped forward again. “Get up high enough in a crane and you’ll avoid the heavy stuff. The Martians leave you that?”
“Everything. It’s all come from them.”
“Toss the guns.”
Apache dropped his two guns.
“And the utility belt.”
Apache obliged.
“Is it worth it, Hunter?” Apache asked, his scarred voice echoing through the scarf.
“Was it worth betraying your race?”
“Betraying? We can’t win, Hunter. We can’t win. The Fallen Angel...if we did what he said, he’d give us each a town, and people to live in it. Every year we’d get more too.”
“Rewards for good behavior.”
“A chance for life!” Apache screamed, “a chance to give us an actual life again. A world without war. Don’t call me a race traitor, Hunter. I’m humanity’s best friend.” Slowly, Apache turned around. “Do you know w
hat it’s like Hunter? You lose your family? Your friends, everyone you’ve ever loved?”
“I’ve lost people.”
“I was in there, Hunter. Have you seen what they’ve done to our country?” Hunter didn’t answer. “To our world?”
“We can’t cut deals.”
“But what’s the point?! How do we beat them, Hunter? How do we stop an enemy like this? They’ve already won. All you’re doing is spitting on the fire.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I’m a symbol!” Apache cried. Tears stung his eyes. “I’m somebody. I give our people hope, and I’m doing it for real. I can save thousands, I can keep the human race alive.” Apache held his hands out as he stepped forward. “I don’t like the Martians. I hate them. I hate them. If it were up to me, I’d kill all of them, every last one, but I can’t.”
“Apache—”
“And you call me a race traitor? A race traitor? Hunter, I’m just a man doing the best I can.” he pointed to the radio dish. “If I call the Fallen Angel and get his troops here, I can save twenty thousand humans right now, and thousands more in the future. Entire generations can grow up free.”
“Apache—”
“I can give humanity back to humans!” He stepped forward, his finger still pointing at the satellite dish, connected by some invisible string. “I can make a difference. What can you do?”
“Fight.”
“Until what? You think they’ll pack up and leave?”
“There’s more going on than you think, Apache. If I die, I’ll die fighting. That’s giving humanity back to humans, Apache. Fighting. Not giving up.” Apache lowered his hands. “Staying in, and saying ‘this is our world, and we’re not giving it up’. That’s giving humanity back to humans, Apache. As long as we keep doing that, there’s a chance.”