Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

“All right,” said Erik. “Try to lift…just an inch. I want to see if this thing is loud or not.”

  “Roger.”

  “On three. One…two…three!”

  The door groaned as the two men put their backs into lifting what Erik figured must have been a motorized door. Something popped and the resistance slackened. The door moved, metal on metal screeching for just a second. A slice of white sunlight pierce the darkness at their feet and grew to an inch or so in thickness.

  “Hold it,” hissed Erik. “Brin, can you drop down and see if you see anyone out there? Hurry,” he said. “This thing is heavy.”

  Brin quickly got to the floor and Erik could see her pretty face appear in the light as she blinked back tears. “God, it’s bright out there,” she whispered. “I can’t see anything…”

  Come on…come on, baby…I can’t hold this thing forever…

  “Wait…I can see now…” Brin turned her head left and right. There was only space for her to see out of one eye, so she was flat on the floor. “I see some parachutes fluttering in the trash out there in the back of the stores…and some trees on the other side of the alley. No people though.”

  A shout echoed down the alley far to their left. More gunfire, louder now with the door cracked open. One of the kids let out a yelp that was cut off by someone’s hand covering a tiny mouth.

  “All right, Pinner, let’s get this thing up about two or three feet. Ready? Brin—find something we can use to keep it open so we can get out. Pinner…slowly now, let’s keep it quiet. Go!”

  Erik strained and tried to stand up, using his legs and keeping his back straight. The door was reluctant to move but his strength, combined with Pinner’s, forced the issue. A little more groaning, a faint metallic protest, and the door was up to a height that they could all comfortably slip through.

  “I can’t find anything,” whispered Brin.

  “Got it…sir…” grunted Pinner.

  Erik heard a muffled clang and then Pinner exhaled. “Done. You can let go now, sir.”

  Erik slowly released the door and held his breath as his side sagged a few inches and stopped. “What’d you do?” he asked Pinner.

  “Shoved my knife in a slot there in the wheel-track. Don’t think I’ll get that knife back, but we can at least get the hell out of here.”

  “Good thinking, Pinner. Okay everyone, let’s go. I see there’s a ramp on the other side of the loading dock. Me and Sgt. Pinner are going to hop down and then we’ll help you down. When we’re all outside, we’re going to sneak our way across the alley there and into those pine trees. Okay?”

  More gunfire and foreign shouts exploded outside. They sounded even further away but it still made the children squeak and Erik’s heart skip a beat. “I…don’t think…” Susan started.

  “No time for debate. Pinner, let’s do this.” Erik and Pinner rolled under the door and dropped the four feet into the well of the loading dock. The ramp behind them led up to the street level. Erik could see they would be exposed for about thirty feet or so before they made it into the thick brush at the far side of the alley. He could hear the noise of the late season cicadas, calling to him from the pines. He peeked over the lip of the well in time to hear a loud bang and see a puff of smoke appear at the far end of the strip mall in the distance. More gunfire—a lot of it—quickly followed the explosion. Whatever the hell Ted was doing, he was sure making enough noise.

  “Let’s go, quickly now… and remember, ssshhhh,” Erik said, holding his hands up for Ted’s eldest son to drop down out of the building.

  He helped Susan last. Erik couldn’t help but wince at the sight of her shirt, wet and dark, stained with blood from her reopened stomach wound. In the sun once more, he easily saw how pale she looked. Brin hopped down gracefully into his arms next and hugged him quickly. His heart raced at the feeling of her body pressed so closely against his own.

  “I don’t know if she’s going to make it,” she whispered into his ear as she nuzzled his neck.

  He stepped back from her, his face grim. “We’ve got to try.”

  Someone shouted something from the alley. It sounded like knee d’vee-gots-ya to Erik. He spun around to see a Russian paratrooper aiming an AK-47 at them. His blue eyes were wide and he kept moving the rifle from person to person. The Russian took a few steps down the ramp and glanced down the length of the strip mall.

  Erik followed his gaze. There was no one else in sight, but a loud crashing sound and some more gun fire rolled down the alley toward them. Ted was still on the loose and Erik figured the Russian was alone.

  The same thought appeared to have crossed the invader’s mind as he shifted his eyes between him and Pinner, like a dog trying to decide which bone to chew first. The Russian said something else and motioned with the gun towards the ground.

  Erik glanced at Pinner. “I think he wants us to get on the ground.”

  Pinner never took his eyes off the Russian. He said nothing.

  The paratrooper took a split second to survey the women and children, his eyes flicking back to Pinner. He only gave Erik a brief glance. Pinner was drawing the majority of the attention.

  For good reason, thought Erik. The man looks like a human pit-bull. I’m no soldier…what the hell am I doing here?

  Another gunshot echoed in the distance and the Russian turned to look. Pinner charged. In two steps, he collided with the Russian. He kicked is right leg out and tried to sweep the taller foreigner off his feet while throwing the weight of his body at the rifle.

  It almost worked.

  Erik stood transfixed, watching in slow motion as Pinner struggled with the Russian over control of the rifle. In less than three seconds, the Russian’s rifle clattered to the ground a few feet away. Erik found the ability to move again and rushed forward up the ramp to help Pinner.

  That was when he noticed the blood drops on the ground at Pinner’s feet, bright red medallions of bad, bad news. Hands clutched to his chest, Pinner staggered back from the Russian. His copper-skinned hands were red and slick with the attempt to hold his life inside his body. The Russian stood there with his mouth open, still crouched in the fighting stance he had adopted when Pinner bull-rushed him. He blinked and watched as Pinner took another, shuddering, unsteady step backwards before collapsing to his knees.

  Pinner turned and looked at Erik, but when he opened his mouth to speak, only a pink froth escaped his lips. He glared back at the Russian and fell over onto his side. The movement caused a small deluge of blood to seep onto the ground, running downhill on the ramp towards…

  Someone gasped behind him and he heard Ted’s children scream. The effect was like a slap in the face to Erik. Pinner had knocked the Russian’s gun away, been stabbed for his efforts and was likely dying within reach, and here Erik was just standing there like some slack-jawed yokel at a drive-in movie.

  He looked from Pinner—now with a feeble hand outstretched toward Erik, clawing at the air—to the grinning Russian. All trace of nervousness had vanished from the paratrooper’s cruel face. It was clear from his look, he was going to enjoy what was coming next.

  Erik was drowning in emotion—rage bubbled up inside and propelled him forward. He reached to his side and in order to swing up his rifle, cursing himself for a fool since he had not thought to do so earlier. He was hoping there was time to save Pinner when he realized his hands were still empty and the Russian was still advancing down the ramp. Erik looked over this shoulder—in the dark maw of the loading dock door, he could see the butt of his M4 partially sticking out of the shadows a good ten feet away on the other side of Brin, Susan, and the cowering children. The rage vanished like fog in the morning sun, replaced with a cold, paralyzing fear.

  Shit.

  He turned back and the Russian looked ready to laugh. The arrogance just rolled off the paratrooper now that Pinner was barely moving on the ground, wallowing in his own blood. The man shifted the knife back and forth between his hands, twirling the blade a littl
e.

  He’s playing with me like a cat does with a bird that’s got a broken wing. Son of a bitch.

  Erik instinctively put his arms out and stepped back, trying to keep the women and children behind him. The Russian laughed and picked up his pace. He was actually strolling down the ramp. The sounds of a renewed gunfight down the alley didn’t even make him twitch now. Erik could see he was staring at Brin and Susan. He didn’t even consider Erik a threat anymore.

  Erik charged. He slipped his left arm free of the strap that held his pack and let the bulky thing slide down below his shoulders. He spun as the surprise registered on the Russians face. Suddenly, the thirty-pound burden that was constantly threatened to put Erik on his ass became a thirty-pound bludgeoning device. He pulled with all his strength and heard with satisfaction a whoosh as the bag cut through the humid air on its flight toward the Russian’s head.

  The Paratrooper easily blocked the pack as it swung around, but in doing so he took his eyes off Erik and raised the hand holding the knife into a position where it couldn’t be immediately used against anyone. As the Russian was knocked backwards by the impact of all that gear, Erik noticed that the pack had shifted in flight—staring him right in the face was the katana, securely strapped to the side of his kit.

  As the Russian backpedaled, the pack dropped. Erik’s left hand shifted from the shoulder strap to the hilt of his sword. Using the momentum of the bag to pull the sheath down, Erik ripped his arm up. A flash of light took the attention of the Russian away from Erik as the ancient weapon came free.

  Now it was the Russian’s turn to freeze for a moment as he saw three feet of polished, blazing-in-the-sun razor-sharp steel rise before his face. He glanced down at the eight inch knife in his hands. It was the last thing he ever did.

  Using that brief distraction as the man contemplated the impotence of his own blade, Erik lunged forward and brought down the katana in a graceful, cross-body arc. He felt the thin blade shudder as it hit the Russian’s tactical vest. However, the tip of the curved blade was just forward enough to neatly slice the paratrooper open at the base of his neck.

  A thin, red line appeared, like someone had marked him with a red pen. The man’s eyes bulged and he tried to gasp but the sound that came out was more of a surprised gurgle. He turned his head to look down the alley and the line on his neck widened to show it was not only a cut, but a deep one. The skin separated and the red flesh underneath parted. The Russian took a step backwards and tripped on the upslope of the ramp, the sudden movement causing a fountain of red to erupt from his neck, sprinkling color on the ramp in a semi-circle. He fell over on his back, arms and legs working as if he were running. The movement caused more blood to escape his body, the sprinkles joined by what looked like globs of spilled paint.

  In seconds it was over—the Russian was still twitching feebly, but Erik was sure the man wouldn’t rise again.

  Erik rushed to Pinner’s side and dropped to his knees. A quick touch to his neck told Erik Pinner was dead. There was no pulse at all. The body was still warm, his flesh firm and soft, but the life was already gone from his eyes. Erik didn’t know what else to do, so he gently swept his hand over Pinner's face and closed his eyes.

  Reality rushed back at Erik like a charging bull. He looked up and down the alley. No sign of the Russians or Ted. The gunfire had stopped. That could be good or bad. Either way, he had to move. Pinner had bought them time with his life. Erik was determined not to waste that sacrifice.

  “Let’s go,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Into the trees over there, come on!”

  Susan, looking even paler—if that was possible—was the first to snap out of it. She shook her head and nudged Brin. Taking her youngest son by the hand, she moved up the ramp. Brin, a pack on her back full of supplies, took the hands of Ted’s elder children and followed.

  Erik started to realize they were going to make it to the safety of the trees when he heard the first shout. He turned his head and saw three Russians running full tilt down the alley toward them. “Keep going, hurry!” he said, pushing Brin forward. They were a little over halfway across the alley. The treeline was right there. If they could just make it into the trees, they might have a chance of evading the Russians. They just needed cover.

  Just a few more steps…

  A shot rang out and a puff of asphalt appeared at Susan’s feet. She screamed and pulled her son against her leg. Another shot and a clump of pavement erupted at Erik's feet. He got the message.

  Shouts from the right made him look. Two more paratroopers were rounding the corner of the building. They were trapped.

  Where the hell is Ted? What do I do?

  Brin looked at him, her face full of more fear than he’d ever seen. He could feel his courage slipping away like a dream at the first hint of dawn. The anger that had been replaced with fear, slowly gave way to resignation and defeat. He felt his shoulders slump and exhaustion washed over him like a warm ocean, trying to pull him down.

  The children cried, Brin screamed, the Russians shouted—voices bombarded Erik’s ears with alien words and commands. They pointed their rifles and shouted. He couldn’t tell what the hell they wanted him to do—get on the ground, raise his hands, or dance the polka. Erik realized that he was still holding the bloodied katana in his left hand. He dropped it, wincing as the steel clattered to the ground.

  “I don’t understand you!” he yelled in desperation at the closest Russian, only a few yards away now, walking instead of running, waving his gun in a threatening manner. “What do you want me to do?”

  Behind him, Brin shrieked. A split-second later he felt what seemed like a car crashing into the back of his skull. As the ground rushed up to meet his face, he felt oddly aware that his dream of getting Brin to safety in the north was over. He had let the Russians capture Ted’s family. Brin.

  You had one thing to do, he scolded himself in a strange, dream-like voice. It seemed…slow.

  There was no pain when he hit the ground. Just movement. He could see through a haze of red mist that a fog must have rolled in—strange that it was red, though. There was Brin, towering over him. She seemed taller than normal. A man grabbed her arm and dragged her out of his vision. He could see her scream, but couldn’t hear her voice. That was odd. As she left his vision, he noticed Susan fall to her knees, the stomach of her shirt now stained bright red. The pale white of her skin stood out in stark contrast and caught his eye.

  Oh, there’s Ted’s kids…I wondered where they got off to… He felt the overwhelming urge to yawn. He was so tired…so sleepy. He just wanted to rest.

  As his world faded to black, one last thought flitted through Erik’s mind—the last spark of a dying campfire: …did someone shoot me? Wh…what’s happening…? Oh God…I can’t see…

  There was no time for panic, just darkness.

  Wait…Brin…

  PART TWO

  Prisoner of War

  CHAPTER 11

  The Deal

  PRESIDENT HANK SUTHBY PACED the war room like a caged animal. His shirt sleeves had long since been rolled up to his elbows and his tie hung loose around his neck. The collar was unbuttoned, partially to hide the coffee stain just below his throat. He had bags under his eyes, he knew it—he knew he needed sleep, he knew he needed food, he knew he needed to sit and rest. The events on the East Coast were swirling out of control to the point that if he didn't do something soon…if something right didn't happen for him or the country…

  "I need an update and I need it now!" he said as he slammed his hand on the large, polished conference table that occupied most of the floor space in the room.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said one of President Suthby's new aides. He looked down and read from the top sheet in his hand: "We haven't been able to contact General Stapleton—not since the video feed was lost. There’s been scattered reports of a skirmish near Manhattan—it happened right around the time we lost contact." The man looked up, a sheen of sweat reflecting off hi
s forehead. "It's like they just vanished, sir.”

  “Maybe they got wiped out?” someone mumbled on the other side of the room.

  “Jesus, what does that mean for us?” asked another new face.

  The President fumed. His people continued to banter about what-if’s and maybe’s…he tried to ignore them. He paced again, hands on his hips, determined to replace general Stapleton.

  "Maybe the arrogant jackass just pulled the plug on his radio? The man insults me, that’s what it means! I ordered him to wait until I gave the command to take New York City. I wanted time to talk to this Malcolm character. I wanted time to try to resolve this conflict peacefully." He looked up at the sea of faces in the war room. Everyone was watching. "Instead, this general decides he knows better what to do in a complex political situation. So he severs communications with me. With me!"

  He gestured at the map on the wall and sought Daniel's face in the crowd. When he found his newly promoted Chief of Staff, he pointed a finger at him. "You heard me—you heard me loud and clear when I told him to stand down the last time I spoke with him! You all," he said sweeping his arms to encompass his loyal followers, "have seen what this man has done. I think we have legal justification, as of right now, to declare General Stapleton a rogue element…"

  "Sir, perhaps it would be best not to jump the gun on this," said Daniel. He stepped forward through the throng of staffers to get closer to President Suthby. In a quiet voice, not meant for the prying ears of the crowd, he whispered: “It might not be politically astute to declare general Stapleton rogue. He happens to be in charge of the largest American army we have outside of…well, anywhere we can contact. Besides, what does that make him? Sympathizer with the rebels? He's trying to destroy the rebels. If he's not with them and he’s not with us, then what do we call him?"

  "Damn it all, we have to do something! My grip on this office—my ability to govern—is being called into question at every turn. The Press—when they can get word out—have been hounding me. I've got half of Congress," he said slapping his hand into a fist, "out for my head on a plate! Most of the Republicans still don't see me as anything other than the head of FEMA.”