* * *
Raxx remembered this area. The stairs came up on either sides of the tunnel, and the platform was huge, shops littering both side of the rotunda. Above it was a semi-circular balcony, leading towards the exits, and looking down on the subway stairwells. They were up on it now, crouched in the shadows with their weapons trained. Wentworth had called it the fatal funnel. This was where they were going to end it.
The minutes stretched on. It was dark. Only the barest hints of red, flickering light reached them. Finally they heard sounds from below. Wentworth’s hands were sweating, he opened and closed his right before putting it back on the pistol grip. Phillips was being cautious.
A glint of black in the stairwell. He and Raxx opened fire. The gong of a grenade launcher. Raxx was already running, as planned, after firing a short burst. Wentworth dove to the side, rolling onto his stomach and bringing his rifle up. A piece of shrapnel pinged off his helmet as he started firing back down into the stairwell. Raxx had circled around the balcony and was going down the service stairs. Without exposing himself, the grenadier lobbed a second grenade. This one exploded against the ceiling. Wentworth ducked again. This time he couldn’t tell what showered his body, bits of concrete or shrapnel, but he still seemed to be okay. He rolled back from the edge and played dead.
“Move!” came the shout from below. The Section tried to bypass the stairwell as quickly as possible, but the troop guarding their six was too slow. By this time Raxx had snuck down the service stairs, and was crouched at the back end. His shotgun chugged as he held down the trigger. The muzzle flash lit his face white, casting shadows on his eye sockets and making the hairs of his goatee stick out like a thousand threatening needles. His piercings glowed viciously.
As Raxx fired, Wentworth stood up and started snap-shooting into the stairwell. Raxx backed off and Wentworth switched to fully automatic. That’s when he saw the movement on the second stairwell. He switched his point of aim, but it wasn’t enough. “Raxx, get down!”
The Mechanic never heard him.
He fell backwards, the strength going out of his knees and his weapon flailing, as the newspaper box behind him exploded into plastic shards, under a barrage of fire from the second stairwell. He hit the ground, limp.
Hot lead built up in Wentworth’s eyes to match the seeping from his leg. It was just too much. He hadn’t expected the second stairwell — how had he missed the second stairwell? — and now Phillips had traversed it, taking cover in the far corner. It was too much. Exchanging fire with his old brothers — with Steele — and then the death of his only friend—
An idiotic idea occurred to him. His head was already swimming with vertigo. It wouldn’t matter, then. He rolled off the mezzanine into the empty air.
The world swung sickeningly. There they were, crouched, two meters apart, weapons still trained on Raxx’s corpse. He aimed the rifle between his legs and fired — the soldier with the rifle fell.
The concrete struck him; shocks through his body.
Phillips was holding a machinegun, still frozen in surprise. Wentworth was seeing double. Phillips reacted.
They pulled their triggers simultaneously. Phillips’ shots went wide. Wentworth’s didn’t. The four round burst pushed his weapon upwards, leaving a trail of punctures on Phillips’ body. The machinegun flew from the man’s hands, shot several more rounds, then stopped. It hit the ground with its ammo belt jingling.
Their fire echoed up and down the corridors in heavy pulses, fading. Then there was silence.
Wentworth bent his knees, and tried to stand up. His body ached. There were no stabbing pains, though. With any luck he hadn’t broken a bone. With ones hand under him he managed to sit up. He tried to stand — his right leg was numb, stiff. He blinked away tears, unsure if they were for his leg or for his friend, and forced himself up. Rifle tucked into his armpit, he stumbled over to the bodies of Phillips and his soldier.
They weren’t a threat anymore. Off behind him, Raxx wasn’t a threat, either.
He stumbled over to the first stairwell. One of the grenadiers lay there, his body silent, weapon fallen down to the lower level. Taking a deep breath he moved over to the other stairwell, the one Raxx had pelted with his full-auto burst. The stairwell where he’d killed people. Raxx’s final action.
Two more bodies. They were lying on top of one another.
He saw the glint of an eye and dropped. A brief muscle movement from one of the bodies, firing a shot from a long gun. His rifle barked in response, on target to the threat. The enemy’s round missed him as his own split open a forearm.
A high pitched shriek. He looked down at the face, a rictus of pain, as she tried to hold her shredded arm. It was Steele.
He put down his rifle, and moved down the stairs, leg still numb, sliding his ass from step to step. By the time he reached her she’d quieted, though her breathing was laboured. The steps were soaked with blood.
He looked at her. Her eyes were frantic with pain, but deep within them, there she was, looking back. He gasped a breath. “You were a hell of a kisser,” he said
“Yeah,” she panted back, cradling her pink and white flesh, “You weren’t so bad yourself, Iain.”
Her eyes hadn’t changed much.
“You know you were my first, Rach.”
“Yeah… you were my first too… that night.”
“Yeah. That was a good night.” He moved swiftly, before she had a chance to protest. He pulled out his pistol and shot her. Her eyes canted backwards, as if looking at the wound in her forehead. Then she fell forward and was still.
He breathed out a shuddering breath. It was hard to believe. “They’re all dead…”
All of them. Hot tears… Rachel Steele lay in front of him, shredded and pathetic. The reflected firelight diffused idiotically. Her rictus was too wide, and her neck’s angle was all wrong. He kept thinking about the pitcher-and-a-half of beer that Phillips owed him. He lifted his goggles and wiped salty wetness, and thought about the Mechanic’s sacrifice.
Silence and bodies. Steele was dead. Raxx was dead. His one-time lover, and his only friend left on Earth. “They’re all dead…”
“Yeah, they are.”
His pistol snapped up. He didn’t have the strength to hold it with both hands, his left was steadying him on the stairs, but his aim didn’t waiver.
“Whoa, relax man, it’s me.”
He blinked a couple times before lowering the weapon. “How the hell are you still alive?”
Raxx grinned, “Well, my momma always said; when somebody says duck, you’d best damn-well duck, boy!”
* * *
Master Corporal Shaffer was sucking air and coughing up blood. The dressing on his chest had come loose, and air was entering the cavity and collapsing his lung. It hurt with a deep, low pain. He just couldn’t hold the dressing in place anymore. The tourniquet tied around his arm was keeping him from bleeding out, but it had also made his hand go numb.
Part of him was detached, morbidly fascinated by how much pain he was feeling. Each breath felt like a knife stabbing him in the chest, his arm tingled as if a frost-fire were consuming it, while his uninjured legs felt warm and fuzzy. Beneath him the cement was cold. It was odd, he thought, how the pain was making his eyes bulge open. His good hand kept trying to grab something, anything, but it was too weak. He could barely lift it.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. He couldn’t tell if the ambient glow was from the fire he’d seen earlier, or if it was just the red haze of pain. Suddenly the light changed. Yellow lines swept across him and a face swung into view. Sergeant Iain Wentworth. Behind transparent goggles the man looked down sadly, a pity that Shaffer felt he deserved. His accomplice stood behind him, indifferent and wrapped in shadows, with several weapons slung across his back. They’d looted the rest of the Section. The others would all be dead. “Traitor…” he said.
Wentworth’s lips moved, but his words travelled as if through deep water. �
��I’m no traitor. It’s the CO and his officers who are traitors. They betrayed all of us.” He continued speaking, but the details were lost, and Shaffer didn’t feel like arguing. Then he said something else; he was offering to end it. Shaffer’s wounds were going to kill him, he said.
“No…” his voice croaked. He could barely speak, barely think. If his life was over then it was over, but before he died he was going to suck up every last bit of it. This might be all he had left but he’d make the most of it. “Light…” it was difficult to speak. “Sun…” Wentworth and his friend looked at each other. They spoke but he couldn’t make out the words.
Putting down the looted kit, they picked him up by the shoulders. It hurt, but everything hurt, so he didn’t mind. Between them, they carried him up to the surface.
It was funny, he thought, how he wasn’t angry at Wentworth for doing this to him. He hadn’t forgiven him; Wentworth was still his enemy. He’d carry that to the grave — the thought almost made him laugh — but still, he felt no bitterness.
A memory came to him then. His first girlfriend, what was her name? She was in the Service Battalion when she died. He remembered how it felt the first time he’d slid his hand up her shirt and cupped her breasts through the training bra. They’d kissed for hours but he’d been too nervous to touch the nipple with his fingers, the hard nub had been pressing into the palm of his hand while his fingers played with the straps.
By the time Raxx and Wentworth reached the surface Master Corporal Schaffer was dead.
The sun had returned.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Davis M.J. Aurini was born and raised in Hamilton, Ontario before moving to Aidrie, Alberta in the late-eighties. After High School he traveled back and forth across the country, spent seven years serving as an Infantry soldier in Canada’s military reserve, and studied History at McMaster University.
He currently lives in Calgary, and contributes to the alternative-right blogosphere at StaresAtTheWorld.com
Copyright
As I Walk These Broken Roads is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Davis M.J. Aurini
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1480121829
ISBN-10: 1480121827
BISAC: Fiction / Science Fiction / Military
FB2 document info
Document ID: def6084b-df57-4c4d-8ee6-602b32773908
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.11.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.6, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Namenlos
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1 Page 29