by Alan, TS
At the front of the building, he questioned me. “What was all that about? It was open,” he asked, confused by the abrupt change and tactical retreat.
“Yeah, it was open. But even with my Nightcrawler abilities, there are only two of us and it’s getting late. At least we know we can get in.”
Joe and Sam were standing at the side of the tanker, Sam was placing the hoses into the truck, but Joe, who appeared to be standing watch, was not paying attention to their surroundings.
“Hey,” I yelled at them.
Joe and Sam looked up and were stunned at the sight of a UD. It was standing in the middle of the compound. When it had heard my voice, it turned and lumbered toward David and I, tripping and falling onto a body. It struggled to stand after crawling over the corpse it had tripped over.
It was slow and looked like it was lost and confused. Its head cocked back and forth, like it was struggling to hear some faint whisper.
I clapped my hands together. It turned and moved toward us again, but then stopped. David and I walked quietly toward it. I could see Sam and Joe approaching. I held out my hand to indicate for them to halt. We were eight feet away. I could see its eyes. They were cloudy.
I tapped David on the shoulder and indicated for him to take it out.
“Trigger treat, motherfucker,” he exclaimed, smiling dryly, and then fired from nearly point blank range. The bullets ripped its face apart. It dropped to the ground.
Joe and Sam joined us.
I asked, with irritation and dead seriousness reflecting in my voice, “You guys got CRS or is it just DAS?”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
I never felt comfortable being the chosen leader of our survival group, but it was a responsibility I had accepted. In the GCC the burden had been minimal, with the exception of Joe’s behavior. But the outside world had those inherent dangers that we all feared, and the lack of respect and/or awareness of those dangers were apparent in the cavalier attitude of two of my team members. The need for strong leadership was pressing.
“Can’t Remember Shit or Dumb Ass Syndrome?” I explained. “What did I tell you two? Pay attention!” I reprimanded, in a commanding tone. “We can’t afford to lose anyone. Are we refueled?”
Sam knew I was pissed, and he knew I was right; they had not listened to my warning. Sam replied with military respect.
“Yes, sir! All tanks,” confirming his duty had been fully completed. “There was still pressure in the primary hydraulic pump.”
“Good,” I responded, affably. “Then let’s go. I don’t want to be out when the sun goes down.”
As we walked toward the vehicles David said, “Tell ’em.”
“Go ahead,” was my answer.
“What?” Joe asked.
“We found a way in.”
I added, “An open door at the end of 25th Street. But it can wait. It’s time to go.”
It was disappointing that we would have to leave without knowing what supplies may be stored in the armory, but we would return the next day to find out. Sam picked up the flamethrower that he collected and we departed.
As we traveled up Park Avenue and approached 32nd Street, I saw the UD again, the one that Joe had missed. I radioed to him. “Hey, Joe. Lock and load. Your target is still at the intersection.”
As we passed the UD, David shouted to me just as Joe unleashed another barrage. “Holy shit did you see that?”
“Did he miss again?”
“No, not that. The UD. Did you see that other UD? It ran up from behind the other one and slammed into the side of the Stryker. That fucker bounced clear back across the meridian.”
Before David finished, Sam radioed, reporting that he thought he might have damaged a wheel when he ran over a piece of concrete on the road—debris from Joe’s first attempt to neutralize the UD—and he wanted to pull over for a visual.
I ordered, “Negative, Sam, Negative. David has reported hostiles. Continue back to base.”
When we arrived back at Grand Central I pulled my vehicle near the doors and was about to shut off the engine when Sam zoomed past, crashing through the entrance doors, driving through Vanderbilt Hall, down the ramp into the terminal, past the information kiosk and to the tunnel from which we had originally emerged. I followed in his wake of destruction. When I pulled in behind him he was inspecting the Stryker, while Joe, surprisingly, kept watch.
“Just park it anywhere, Sam,” I said, disapproving of his trashing the terminal.
He ignored me. In a pissed off tone, he said, “Look at this! There’s chunks of crap all over the darn Stryker. This looks like part of a nose!”
V. The Fighting Irish
Joe’s attempts to shoot the UD were farcical. The expression “hitting the broadside of a barn” came to mind. As we passed the UD again on our way to the armory, Joe once again missed.
I taunted him. “Joe, you want us stop on the way back so you can get out and kick him in the ass?”
He radioed back. “You’re almost funny… you wanna try? It’s not as easy as you’d think.”
“No, but I tell you what. You can ride with me and use the machine gun on the roof on the way back. It’s point and shoot!”
Marisol was getting a good chuckle at Joe’s expense, as she had the night before at the dinner table when I told everyone the story of Joe and the UD. Joe was not amused and swore he’d blow it up in the morning. I was sure he was going to suffer more humiliation at supper for having missed again.
Marisol sat in the passenger seat; David was at the ready manning the machine gun mounted on the roof, and Max sat in between Marisol and I, watching contently out the front window. All of us were together, except the doctor; the others rode with Sam and Joe inside the semi-spacious troop compartment of the Stryker.
We had discussed what needed to be done the night before while eating dinner. The entry team would be comprised of David, Kermit, and myself. I would go in first, and upon my signal, David and Kermit would follow. Joe and Sam were on sentry duty at the bottom of the stairs, while the two girls and Max waited in the Stryker.
I cautiously and slowly made my away across the entry, carbine poised with gun light on, having eased the door open toward me. The early light of the morning sun, filtering through the high windows above the gallery on the north and south side of the building cast ghostly dust-speckled ribbons of daylight, adding to the building’s dark and ominous tone. I signaled for the others to follow.
I had barely stepped out from under the gallery overhang into the main hall when I saw them: transmutes. I immediately halted and hand-signaled Kermit and David to stop their advance. There was one on the balcony to the northwest corner, and I could see another in the shadowy darkness of the opposite corner; they were dressed in military uniforms, and they were watching me. Some of the Army National Guard’s 69th Infantry Regiment had become transmutes. I could only see two, but I sensed others were hiding in the darkened recesses of the balcony, out of my line of sight.
They studied me, not moving, believing they were undetected, hiding high above in the shadows, assuming they would have the tactical advantage when we made our way into the center of the drill hall. I was glad I had decided to make Max wait with the Marisol and Julie; the transmutes might have decided he was an easy meal.
I backed up slowly, motioning to retreat. I eased the door to its original position and led my team down the stairs.
“You change your mind again?” David asked, as we descended to the street.
“Transmutes. At least two that I could see. We’re going to need to go at this in a different way.”
“Now what?” Kermit asked, as we reached street level.
Before I could answer, Joe butted in. “Let’s kill ’em,” he enthusiastically announced.
“Karma moves in two directions,” I responded. “‘If we act virtuously, the seed we plant will result in happiness. If we act non-virtuously, suffering results.’ There has been enough suff
ering. I have an idea.”
I had a simple plan for getting the transmutes to leave. Bright lights, loud noises, and an easy exit would help convince them to go. The simplicity of this plan was also low in risk. It involved only me. Entering alone, I would make my way to the front of the building and open all the doors. I would then return to the back of the building and radio Sam, who would turn the lights on by powering the generator. I would then let out an extremely loud warning screech—I had mastered that—to let the transmutes know that this was my territory and they were to get out. If my vocalization failed to put fear into them, my flash-bang grenades would convince them. The transmutes would head for the nearest exit and be gone.
Most of my comrades were opposed to my plan and protested fiercely, feeling that it was a singular act of stupidity not having back up. Joe insisted his idea of throwing the lights on and shooting them was the most efficient way to rid the armory of the transmutes, completely disregarding the words of Mahatma Gandhi that I had earlier imparted to him. The transmutes so far had not been aggressive toward me, and we were, after all, invading their home. Killing them was bad karma, because there was still a chance I could become one of them.
“There’s no room for bravado or carelessness,” Kermit let me know in no uncertain terms.
My response was, “Every plan has an inherent degree of risk, but risk is the price you pay for opportunity. It’s my bad idea; I’ll take the risk alone. If it fails you can admonish me later.”
Sam had brought his bolt cutters and clipped off the heavy-duty lock of the generator cage in one single action after he brought the Stryker near to the building. I wasn’t surprised at Sam’s strength, though he was small in stature. I had often seen shorter and lighter weight fighters take down opponents who appeared to have the advantage. With his good looks, chiseled features, and muscular physique, he could have been a poster boy for a gym ad.
As we examined the generator, we finally figured out why all the bodies around the perimeter had been stacked up like piles of meat coming out of a deli slicer. The fence had been electrified to maximum voltage. The undead had succumbed to electrocution and fallen atop one another as they tried, and eventually succeeded, to breach the barricades. A massive electrical charge had worked as good as a bullet in the brainpan.
Filling the interior with light was the key to getting the transmutes out. I hoped the sudden illumination would throw them off guard, though having the element of surprise was no guarantee I could get them to leave their nesting place. Even with the lights on, we were in their place of safety, and I was sure they would not readily go into the daylight to seek new shelter. The generator had been partially exposed to the elements for nearly four months, but Sam assured me it was an Army generator and able to withstand extreme weather conditions. After a half hour of reconnecting the power cables to the junction box and getting the generator started, we were ready. He would standby the power switches until I gave the order, then retreat to the safety of the Stryker with the others.
The drill hall was crowded with pallets of boxes of supplies, but I neither had the time nor the luxury to investigate. The transmutes kept keen, glossy, orange-colored eyes fixed upon me as I made my way along the southern wall underneath the fourteen-foot wide balcony toward the main doors.
As I approached the main portico, I could hear clicking noises behind me. It was a transmute giving warning, but I could not see from where it came. The doors contained upper spring bolts, securing them to the ceiling while heavy-duty surface bolts went deep into the floor. There was also a lock mechanism, which gave me a slight chuckle. It was probably as old as the doors and a good, hard smash with a five-pound hammer would send it shattering, cylinder and all.
Originally, I had planned to retrace my steps to the back of the building, but as I extended the outer entry doors, I realized I was placing myself at further risk. I opted to go around the building and re-enter through the back door.
The transmutes were attentive as I re-entered. They knew something was amiss and their clacking confirmed it. I kept close watch on them, moving my head back and forth, checking the corners of the mezzanine for anything that made an approach.
I made my way out from under the balcony and into the room.
The hall was divided into sections. In front of me, to the west side of the large room, was the chow area. On the south side were rows of cots, which had served as the billet area. Along the north side were rows of palletized boxes. Down the middle of the hall was a wide pathway that led to the front door. Several other box-lined passageways intersected the main in a perpendicular direction. I stood in the center of the first intersection at the back of the building and looked upward, surveying my enemy’s position. I thought I would find four or five of them hiding in the shadows in the upper corners, but there were more, and apparently not all were soldiers. They appeared from behind the balcony seats all around the entire gallery. Four, six, seven… eight. Eight transmutes. Clever transmutes.
“Sam,” I radioed, “I’m in position. Hit it. Copy?”
“Copy,” was the response I thought I heard come over the radio, which was strapped to my hip, but I wasn’t sure because I had put in earplugs.
“Sam? You copy… en-nee time!”
“Power engaged. I say again. Power engaged. Copy?” was Sam’s response.
“Negative, Sam. I have no lights. I say again, no lights.”
Loud clicking sounds reverberated through the hall. The radio banter had agitated them. All I would have was the light emanating in from the windows above the gallery.
I let out a long, loud, bellowing screech. I surprised myself; it had been louder than I anticipated. Again, I let out another screech.
My vocalization was returned by several others. They were making their way through the aisles and over the chairs to the railing of the balcony. Was I being challenged, or was it curiosity? Had I been arrogant and stupid in my rejection of backup? I was about to find out.
Several of them came over the railing, dropping atop the boxes. Their eyes had turned from their orangey dawn/dusk color to the familiar yellowish glow that they maintained, like myself, during daylight hours. They stood glaring and clacking at me. I didn’t attempt to clack back, for I hadn’t the physical ability to create an adequate sound. Mine would have been a mere tapping of enamel teeth on enamel teeth, barely audible and certainly not menacing enough to be taken as a real threat.
Their constant clicking and screeching told me it wasn’t mere curiosity; they were growing bold, watching for weakness, seeing if I would hold my ground. Five of them surrounded me, while the others peered over the railing, awaiting their chance to join in the fray if one occurred.
Odd, I thought. I didn’t know owls were pack predators.
I gave one final unabated cry, but they did not heed my warning. I unhooked two flash and bang grenades from my vest. I tossed one left and one right and closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be temporarily blinded from the six to eight million Candela flash. I heard the deafening bang. At one hundred and eighty decibels of sound pressure, it was loud, even with my hearing protection.
Most of them fled, dropping down from the gallery and running for the outdoors. However, several would not yield. They came down from the pallets and attacked.
Feeling that I had no choice, I raised my machine gun and fired. The first one was stopped in its tracks. I turned to another and pulled the trigger again, squeezing off at least another dozen rounds, but I missed. I wasn’t quick enough. Before it reached me, I was on the floor, having been struck from behind.
I didn’t see the one that stalked me from around the boxes to my rear flank. I leapt sideways to the floor with the creature landing on me. I heard a loud screech from a few feet away. The one who struck me down released me and stood up. I quickly rolled over and tried to raise my rifle. I expected it to stand above me with outstretched arms and razor-like claws, ready to slash my throat. Instead its back was to me.
I heard it give an angry cry of warning. Then I saw it was wearing no pants. I looked up and saw its dirty, strawberry blonde hair. It was Luci.
The other lunged at her.
I could hear David’s frantic calls over the radio, but I was unable to answer.
Luci slashed at our enemy. She blocked its attempts to seize me. They clutched one another, spinning around several times. The other had its back to me. Luci tried to pull it away, but she was overpowered and pushed back. The creature struck her hard across the face with the back of its hand, sending her tumbling back, crashing hard into a pallet of rations. It turned to me, but I was at the ready. I emptied my carbine into its chest. It dropped dead near my feet.
I scrambled as quickly as I could to Luci. I could hear my friends calling as they rushed into the drill hall to my aid. I heard another cry of a transmute. I reached for my side arm. There were two dead transmutes on the floor, but I did not see the one that had cried out.
Luci was unconscious. I could see minor swelling and light bruising appearing on the left side of her face; her protective skin was thinner on her face than most of the areas on her body. It was the beginning of what would be a serious hematoma. As I pulled out my earplugs, sudden gun blasts erupted. I heard the shrill cries of a transmute and my name being shouted. It was my friends. I removed my machine gun and set it down to attend to Luci. I was searching through my backpack for a cold pack when they found me.