A Guardian Angel

by Williams, Phoenix

  “I've heard stories about the Knight's and that monster they have,” one mercenary said. “This guy who supposedly went feral a long time ago.”

  “Where did you hear that?” another asked.

  “From some guys in training,” the first replied. “Their C.O.s mentioned him, always talked about him like he's a mythological beast.”

  “Well, then maybe he is,” the second said. “I bet you those guys made him up to scare the recruits.”

  “Maybe,” the first said. “But why would they do that?”

  “I've heard he eats people after he's killed them,” a third merc-cop interjected. “The story that I was told said was that he was part of some hidden, indigenous tribe in Latin America that would catch tourists and sacrifice them. I heard that he's the executioner.”

  “That's enough,” the Grandfather said. The men clammed up and waited for him to speak again, like kids caught by their parents. “You doing okay, Barney?” he asked through his thick, gruff voice.

  With the color dulled out of his face, Barney looked at the man. Sgt. Winestock had a warm smile. “Yes, sir,” he answered. Then he bent his face parallel to the road they skipped over. A warm flush spilled over him.

  “Why so nervous?” one of the other mercenaries asked, observing the mist of perspiration above Barney's lip.

  Sgt. Winestock continued to gaze into the eyes of the newbie until the stare was returned. “You witnessed an execution,” he said, in a voice that aged like fine wine. “Is that right?”

  Barney nodded. He then stared out of the window for a minute straight before taking notice of the continued gaze the sergeant held on him. He could feel an air of expectation. The only words he constructed were, “It was unpleasant.”

  Sgt. Winestock's eyes glazed warm as he finally got Barney to look into them for longer than a moment. “I've encountered that executioner they have,” the sergeant told him. “The man with the dreadlocks and the machete. The 'monster,' as you boys called him.”

  Barney's expression showed surprised interest.

  “Oh yes,” Sgt. Winestock said in response to the look, as if it were an audible question. “He calls himself Guillotine. Unfortunately, I'm sure you know why that is.”

  Silence stilled the air of the vehicle for a second. “Where did you meet him?” Barney asked his commanding officer.

  “In Maryland, on Interstate Ninety-five,” the sergeant began. “We were transporting some terrorist prisoners up toward the super max in New York state. Guillotine and some of his men ambushed us on the road, rammed our trucks off into a ditch. There was a shootout that lasted no longer than a minute. I had been shot through the side, here,” he indicated a healing wound under his body armor. “I thought they were going to free the prisoners, but Guillotine killed each and every one of them. Then he cut off my men's heads. Left me to tell the story like the sociopath he is.”

  The men around the van had clammed up in respectful silence. They must have heard the story themselves before as they knew which parts to hang their head somberly to. Barney couldn't think of anything to say to the sergeant, so he tried to look away.

  “Point is, we've got each others' backs. Nothing like that is going to happen again because we are together,” Sgt. Winestock concluded. “We are family. Welcome son.”

  Holding onto her megaphone, Haley felt cold. It was a windy and chilled day. The air seemed to moan and groan as it whispered past her ears. The sky was a loveless gray.

  “Leroy Graves is on his way to this tower today,” her voice exploded out of the megaphone. She swung her arm back to gesture at the looming building behind her. “He will have no choice but to hear us. He WILL have audience with us.”

  The crowd before her was restless. A haggard collection of upset and scared people. Haley worried that she wouldn't be able to keep things civilized. These people wanted blood. Roars emanated from them in response.

  Haley had been told about Graves' arrival in New York by the Knights. Rosa believed it best if Haley continued her civil work. It was her idea to have an assembly at the base of the tower and invite people from all over the city to protest the Decree occupation. When Haley seemed hesitant about it at first, she was assured that there would be Knights there at all times, keeping everybody safe.

  She still had her doubts.

  Something felt different about this protest. All of the previous gatherings that she had spearheaded, Haley could always feel the sense of community and positive enthusiasm. People were standing together and creating ideas. These people today were tired and stressed. They were like animals that had been backed into a corner. Snarling. Barking. It wasn't the time for a discussion, they thought. Now we must fight or die.

  With a roar that tore through the bleak sky, a helicopter came fluttering up above the city. Faces turned upwards and ears perked at the noise. Heads followed the flight as it circled around the top of the tower. Its momentum was shifted down and the machine managed to land. Curses erupted from the crowd below. Fury bellowed out from them. Things were being thrown about in pure outrage.

  Haley was surprised. She had never expected Graves to show up. Not with the kind of pressure everyone hand been putting on him. She watched people continued to holler and rage. Nothing short of dire importance would make the man put himself in this kind of risk. Haley was no fool. She knew what the Knights wanted to do here.

  Merc-cops were watching the crowd from inside the windows of the Decree Tower. Everyone was aware of their staring eyes, and it only pissed them off more. Some of the people had peeled away from the makeshift stage Haley stood upon and came up to the glass doors of the building, yelling at the mercenaries. Fists pounded on glass and curses cracked out in the ambiance. The men in the tower just watched.

  “Please, everyone!” Haley yelled to the mob at the doors. “We'll do no good provoking them. You're all better than this.”

  Something clanged on the concrete steps, then rolled out into the street under the feet of the bulk of the crowd. Hissing, the tear gas canister erupted its contents into the air. People exploded into panicked motion. They coughed and sputtered as they all ran away from the gas as more canisters were ignited. Angry cries emanated from the protestors. With just a sudden rush to the front door of the tower, they formed from a crowd to a mob. The glass was kicked in and swung at until it all came down in a loud shatter.

  No one could step in far to the building before the merc-cops burst into action, fending the people away. They were well equipped for a riot, with vests and helmets and shields. The mercenaries beat and battered the protesters back onto the concrete steps. There were far more of them that stormed out of the tower than could be seen through the windows.

  Most of the protestors did what they could to push back and resist against the mercenaries, but there was no getting through the riot shields. An enormous energy of disobedience buzzed within the gathered people. Less and less of them seemed willing to be herded and pummeled by the criminals of the Decree Nation. Action was all the protesters sought, all any of them desired. The time for being sheep has passed. Violence would be their tongue and fear shall be their message.

  In just a matter of an instant, someone had drawn a firearm and discharged it. There was no telling if it was one of the protesters or one of the mercenaries. Soon, that mattered little. Automatic rifles were releasing their contents onto the civilians. Scared, the merc-cops exchanged their nonlethal riot control equipment for weapons of war and began executing everyone without a uniform.

  As people fled and hollered, Haley watched. And as she watched, protestors arranged throughout the crowd had drawn military pistols or retrieved rifles and were returning fire upon the mercenaries. They had draped the hoods of their jackets over their heads, and covered their faces in brown masks with the Knights of the Proletariat's insignia on the nose.

  Voices called out, calm and organized. Most of the civilians had been escorted away from the firefight, which ha
d sparked to full flame. Arms pushed along the wounded and frightened people. A pair gently grabbed Haley's shoulders, gaining her attention.

  “Miss Flynn, come with me,” the young Knight before her instructed.

  Dazed, Haley asked, “Where?”

  Without any further exchange of information, the Knight lead her down the steps of the tower and away from the loud staccato of rifles. Sweat drenched her brow, and her stomach had tied into a wretched knot. Fear had made her fingers numb, but never seemed to give her the strength to run. Guilt forced its way into her thoughts after the panic hit its climax. Why should I survive? She asked herself. How many people have to die at my gatherings?

  She was herded toward a van about a block away. It sat alone by the curb, unimpressive in its appearance. But its solitude terrified Haley.

  “Where are the rest of the vans?” she asked.

  “There are no other vans,” cracked the voice of her young escort.

  Haley's mouth dropped open as she searched past her cloudy emotions for the words that she wanted to say. “How are you evacuating the others?” she asked again, frightened to do so.

  The man released a sigh. He opened the vehicle door and did the best job he could at shoving Haley through it. Then he slammed the it shut.

  Rosa stared down at the floor of the bus as it rolled through the streets of New York City. Everyone aboard the vehicle sat as silent as a dark shade of blue, one of the few sounds heard was the furious hum of the tires below them.

  The only other noise came from the enormous black man seated by the driver, who whistled away as he watched the world move outside his window.

  Muscles tightened up inside all of the young and green Knights around Rosa when gunfire became audible over the whir of the bus. Numerous bursts of gunfire, too frequent to count. The faces of her men were wrought with nerves and concern. She managed to keep her own calm as she turned to them. The gun shots got closer.

  “We're ready for this,” she told them all. “You've all worked so hard for this moment. I believe in all of you, with every bit of my heart.”

  Guillotine could still be heard whistling in the background. Rosa could see how much this unnerved the recruits, and she shot him a look. He ignored it, and turned back to the window.

  Rosa did so herself, spotting the helicopter on the tower. Its blades had been still for too long. They needed to hurry. She also could see the battle outside. Her Knights had done an impressive job of evacuating most of the civilians from the area and arming those who insisted upon staying for the fight. She could see the forms that laid like heaps on the concrete.

  The clouds were dark.

  “Leroy Graves has arrived,” Rosa turned to the rest of the bus again. She indicated the helicopter. “Our job is to make sure he never leaves.”

  With little evidence that she had assured her soldiers, Rosa waited for the bus to come to a stop. When the door had hissed open, she was already halfway out of it, her submachine gun locked and loaded.

  Sergeant Winestock was the first one in the van to hear the distant cracks of gunshots as they rode on to their new destination. He watched the rest of his men's faces as they each made out the racket themselves. The Grandfather saw the fear that stole the color out of Barney's cheeks. There was a darting of the eyes, a clamminess to his lips. After a moment, the newest member of the squad noticed the older man's eyes upon him. He straightened his posture and turned his face to the window in his best attempt to conceal his nervousness.

  “You scared, Slechta?” the sergeant asked.

  With a slight expression of hesitation, Barney nodded.

  “Do you know who's here?”

  “No, sir,” Barney answered.

  “Guillotine,” Sergeant Winestock said in a matter-of-fact manner.

  “How do you know that?”

  The man stared in response. Just as the old man had expected, the fear returned to Barney's eyes. The recruit tried to look out the window again, but Winestock's stare burned at him again.

  “I know you're scared,” the sergeant started. “But there are men out there fighting for their lives who are even more terrified than you. They are dying at the hands of this son of a bitch, and we're going to be the only support they can get. They are counting on us.”

  Barney looked around and saw that everyone watched him, gauged his reaction. His nerves were still glued onto his face and his concern was gathered by them.

  “Get mad, son,” Sergeant Winestock suggested. “We're going to subtract him from our fears.”

  Barney only got more scared.

  Footsteps roared like the call of a waterfall, pounding across asphalt. Knights burst forth from their bus and sprinted across the street, opening fire on the mercenaries. In just under a minute, the Proletariat fighting force had tripled, encircling the men in the orange fatigues. Vehicles and architecture had their purposes reformatted when the militants dove behind them. Dust shot out and scattered into the air as bullets collided into the sides of walls or ricocheted off of the street.

  Guillotine charged up past Rosa and her officers. Without slowing his approach, he cocked and fired his magnum into a Decree soldier. As if he could smell the concentration of a young mercenary gazing at him down his sights, Guillotine dove out of the way of the bullet, then blew a hole through the merc-cop's face.

  Rosa felt terrified as she watched her comrade dance. She lacked the soul of a juggernaut, which the gigantic black man wore on his sleeve. Skipping between cover, Rosa picked off more distant mercenaries. Her pulse returned to normal. This is it, she thought. This moment is made for us. With calm and measured breaths, Rosa continued to thin the enemy.

  A miniscule amount of calm dropped down onto the battlefield, in which Rosa rushed closer and closer to the looming tower. Resistance fell down onto the asphalt as the Knights continued their charge. They darted around the steps so that they could encircle the bulk of the Decree soldiers. In just a matter of minutes, it seemed like the battle had started to wither out. The Knights held control over the situation.

  “Find the entrance to the military portion of the tower,” Rosa ordered to one of her lieutenants. “Remember that the offices are separate and won't lead to Graves' office.”

  A nod was given in response before he rushed off to give the order to his officers.

  “Gill – ” Rosa started, turning toward where she had last seen the statue of a man. Instead, he was past a sea of disconnected mercenaries, striking his machete through their defenses. The woman sighed, then muttered to herself, “Or do that, too.”

  She looked back up into the sky at the parked helicopter on the roof of the tower. Whatever Leroy Graves is doing here, it must be important. Nonetheless, Rosa thought, there's no way he's going to stick around with a battle on his doorstep.

  A Decree van pulled itself up across the corner from the violent scene. There was a pause just after the engine shut off where everyone inside the vehicle stared out of their windows at the world they had to emerge to. Most of the color faded from their faces, even the Grandfather. Barney couldn't look at it for more than a few seconds without turning away in panic, trembling.

  “Before we go,” Sergeant Winestock started in his warm and comforting voice, “you all should know why we're here.” The old man shared stares with each of the men's eyes, reassuring those darting and dancing irises that their gaze needed to be firm. “We were not assigned here. No one knows that we are at the tower. My defense would be that we needed to act quickly to be effective, and you all know I hate jumping through hoops for permission. Our brothers out there need our help. Let's show these terrorist bastards that Decree has war heroes.”

  A collective deep breath was drawn before the door slid open and they piled out. Reinforcements were here.

  The volume of the surrounding air jumped upwards in Rosa's ears. She turned around and saw the new force of merc-cops dashing behind cover, shooting over their heads at her me
n. In just a few seconds, she watched a pair of Knights get dropped by the surprise backup. Guillotine turned toward the leader of the Knights, who had just ducked behind cover.

  “The cavalry's here,” she called out to him.

  The hulking man grinned a yellowed smile. Dropping his revolver, he dashed from behind the bench he sat behind. The black machete flew out of the sheath on his back, and he disappeared as a blur from Rosa's sight.

  One of her lieutenants ran up and ducked behind the truck Rosa crouched behind. His face drew her attention. Concern illuminated her eyes.

  “We have to get inside, quick,” she said in a severe tone.

  “Yes, ma'am,” the Knight replied. “There's a door into a garage, just a level under the lobby.”

  Rosa peeked over the cover for a moment. She heard the melee, but could only see bodies. She ducked down again. “This is the one that needs sergeant's access?” the woman asked. The young man nodded. “You're absolutely sure there's no other way in?”

  “Short of blowing a hole in the wall,” the lieutenant replied, his voice trailing off at the look of deep contemplation on his commander's face.

  The gunshots only increased in frequency. The noise sent a horrid shutter down Rosa's spine. Every discharged round could be one of her men dying. The more the sound filled her ears, the more it felt like nails on a chalkboard. She wanted to run away from it, to not think about it. She raised her head in a decisive movement.

  “Tell our guys to start checking bodies,” Rosa commanded. “We need to get a sergeant's key badge ASAP.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” the young man replied, nodding. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ran off toward the bulk of the militia.

  Rosa prayed that a sergeant could be found.

  Some small measure of confidence found its way into Barney's attitude as he watched his commanding officer fight from behind the cover next to him. The old man was well trained, and not even a drop overconfident. Careful grace surged through the sergeant's veins, guiding his aim and enhancing his senses.