by Ryan Schow
“If we’re going to survive,” he says, “we have to take care of each other.”
And that was that.
Later on, Indigo might regret her steadfast tone, but I don’t blame her. She has to look out for herself, for Atlanta, for all their things. I can only imagine how hard she worked amassing her stores of food and supplies. The last thing she needed was Rider robbing her if he suddenly got the inclination.
Chapter Nine
The tower of bodies caught fire and started to burn, slowly at first, but then faster as it spread toward the top of the heap. The flames devoured the fabric of clothes. It ate through body and bone. It consumed hair and eyes and everything in its path.
Gunderson waited for them to come. He was hunkered down inside a nearly demolished building four stories up. Through a pair of stolen field glasses, he stood before the open hole of a shattered glass window and studied the surrounding streets below. Through the thick pall of smoke and the cooked stink of burnt flesh, he and his men waited.
Hands over their faces, some of his men breathing through the fabric of their shirts, Gunderson and his crew watched and waited.
Thirty minutes later, in the distance, they heard the drone of an engine. Moments later, a Humvee full of soldiers rolled up to the furnace of bodies. Gunderson put up his hand, palm out as a signal to wait.
There were four soldiers inside the Humvee by the look of it. Gunderson suppressed a cough as the Humvee’s engine cut. The air was quiet, except for the steady crackle of a fire now eating the last of hundreds of bodies. The driver’s side door swung open and a big man in boots and military fatigues stepped out.
Eyes on the smoldering bonfire, the driver motioned for the others to join him on the street. Three more men piled out of the Humvee.
Gunderson watched them talk about the flames. His hand was still up, palm out. The message was, hold your fire. The driver then dipped his body inside the beat-to-hell, camouflage painted Humvee and grabbed a large walkie talkie.
“They have comms?” someone asked.
Gunderson saw what was happening and gave the signal. Gunfire blasted through the smoky stillness of the abandoned building across the street. Below, the four soldiers shook and swayed from the riddling of bullets, and then they all crumbled to the asphalt, dead, the walkie-talkie lying broken beside them.
Gunderson motioned for his ground forces to converge upon the Humvee, which they did, guns at the ready, prepared in case there was anyone else.
There wasn’t.
Gunderson and the snipers hurried down the stairwell of the ten story building, bursting out of a reinforced steel door into the muted light of day. The air was thick and claustrophobic, the men all standing around the bodies. One of them held up the walkie-talkie. It had taken a round high and center.
Gunderson took the comm unit, looked it over, then frowned and dropped it onto the asphalt. Looking at their kill, he said, “Get the uniforms while they’re still salvageable.”
With the Humvee and four uniforms in his possession, they might be able to infiltrate the other troops, one unit at a time. After that, they could take the city under the guise of the National Guard. Gunderson’s men when to work stripping the soldiers of their uniforms, not worrying about the blood, and certainly not exercising a shred of decency or respect in the handling of the dead.
Gunderson studied the Humvee at a glance. It was much larger than the H2’s he’d sometimes see hogging the city streets on a Saturday night. For whatever reason, the vehicle intimidated him.
“Who knows how to drive one of these things?” he asked.
His men shrugged their shoulders collectively, which led Gunderson to believe he’d be the one driving. He climbed inside the big vehicle, marveling at the size of it.
“There are three more seats inside with room for two more in back.” Looking over his shoulder, down the long rear of the vehicle, he turned to his men and said, “Any of those gas cans in back that aren’t full, stack them to make more room. And one of you find the tank and fill it.”
Seconds later the rear hatch was opened and his guys started going through the line of gas cans.
“This one’s full,” someone said as Gunderson looked over the controls. Behind him, a gas can was hauled out of the back and presumably someone went to fill the tank.
“What about the rest of us?” someone asked.
God this thing is old as hell, he was thinking. Everything he laid eyes on in the long hardtop H1 was painted a flat military green without a penny of expense dedicated to either comfort or luxury. It was like a reinforced steel box on wheels. Only the seats had any materials on them, but said seats were long ago beaten down, smashed flat from the longest and hardest of rides.
“Sir?”
“Everyone else pile on the roof,” he said, his eyes clearing. “Throw whatever gear you have inside, but not your guns. I want two snipers on top and the other three with AR’s and handguns. Check your ammo. We’re taking an alternate route out and I’m not sure what, or who, we’ll find.”
Five men jumped up on the Humvee’s front hood, walked up it and climbed on top, making a ruckus before settling in. There were two thumps up top letting Gunderson know they were in position and ready to roll.
Gunderson twisted the key into start mode and the engine kicked on. He worked the gas and the big engine caught right away. They were only two blocks away when they turned down the wrong street. At the end, not a hundred yards away, were two more Humvee’s, one with a large gun turret on top and another with a long flatbed trailer stacked to capacity with bodies.
“Damn,” Gunderson grumbled as he braked hard and stuck the Humvee in reverse.
The men down the street, they were clearing the buildings of bodies, but everything stopped when one guy saw them. He pointed his weapon at the truck and started shooting at his men on top. A second later, gunfire erupted from the roof and men up the street took cover.
“Get us out of here!” his passenger yelled.
He stomped on the gas, regretting it immediately. A body rolled off the roof, crashed onto the hood and rolled over the front. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting after them, but they were taking fire. The runner dropped, a red spray coming from his chest.
“Son of a—”
He spun the Humvee around the corner just as the gun turret came to life.
The chase was on!
Up ahead at Sutter and Powell stood the Marriot hotel. The top seventy-five percent of the building was blackened to a crisp. Still it stood. He had the accelerator buried as he navigated around and through the debris on Sutter Street. In the side mirrors he saw the Humvee skid around the corner two blocks back. With the truck in sight, he braked hard for Powell Street.
“We’re going to take this corner and I want you all out. Take out the wheels and the turret first. No one survives. Got it?”
“Got it,” the three of them said, weapons ready.
He swung around the corner, braked to a stop in front of a steeply inclining street. Three doors flew open and the men emptied out of the truck. Seconds later, the four men on the roof hopped off, the last one smacking the side door. Gunderson floored it and was halfway up Powell when the Humvee with the turret rounded the corner.
A hail of gunfire hammered the chase vehicle, slowing it, then crippling it. It veered right, the incline slowing it, until it slammed into the side of a missile blasted parking garage.
Gunderson hit the brakes, waited. He watched as the men converged on the attack vehicle, pulled out the bodies, began stripping them.
Gunderson hit REVERSE, backed down the street and waited. One of the soldiers started to squirm. His man pulled out his pistol, shot the survivor in the head, then finished taking his clothes. There were now five dead soldiers. Meaning Gunderson had five more weapons and five more uniforms.
This might be easier than he thought.
When everyone piled back in, and the four remaining men climbed on top of the roof, they d
id so with new weapons and gear.
Inside the truck, one guy said, “Should we go back for Sanchez?”
“No,” Gunderson replied. He’d seen the man’s chest open up and knew there was no way he’d survived. Plus Gunderson wasn’t one to backtrack. His mother taught him that no matter your setbacks, always move forward. So he was moving forward.
“We’re going home.”
Chapter Ten
EMP Detonation Day. Camp Pendleton, CA
At Pendleton, for the better part of two weeks, no one Jagger or Camila talked to could say for sure who was responsible for the attacks, only that the enemy was changing strategy fast and focusing on multiple targets. Even worse, they were quick learners and able to shift tactics at the drop of a dime.
One of Jagger’s CO’s said it best when he was addressing the troops: “We’ve never been hit with this kind of precision or flexibility before, and certainly not on our own soil.”
What originally concerned everyone in the rank and file was not the attack itself, but that the assault was so widespread; soon even the top brass stopped thinking of this as a few isolated incidents and began referring to this a “nationwide event.”
Now Pendleton was about to fall and this had top strategists scratching their balding heads in dismay. This, Jagger imagined, was a precursor to the same top brass grabbing weapons of their own and joining the physical fight. If it came to that, then every single one of the enlisted men and women guarding the base knew there wasn’t a military man amongst them, including the General himself, who wouldn’t rush into a losing fight without a second’s hesitation.
Jagger forced himself to focus, to power up if he wanted to make it home alive. Where the hospital had been, a giant ball of fire now boiled into he sky and the last of the building fell.
Now that the hospital’s down, he wondered, will they come after us next?
Probably. Most definitely.
Racing across the tarmac, Justus and Camila blew past the first four Hangars heading to Hangar Six when they were flagged into Five. Six was engulfed in flames. Base Ops and Control Tower 169 was in between Hangars Five and Six; they were quickly ushered into Base Ops where Lieutenant General Bradly Page was reportedly on the sat phone with the President.
Major General Harper, a surly man with a block for a head and rough skin marked with gin blossoms, stood beside his CO listening to LtGen Page give the Commander in Chief the SITREP.
“Looks like we’ll be able to hold the base,” LtGen Page reported, or lied depending on how you viewed the situation, “but I’m sending the CJCS (Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff) with my two best pilots, a Gunnery Sergeant and six troops to Sacramento.”
Page paused, nodded his head, then rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, Mr. President, I know that’s not a base. The fact that it’s small, outdated and has a skeleton crew makes it ideal for Op Support. It seems only the larger bases are being targeted at this point. The CJCS will rendezvous with Naval Intelligence and together they’ll roll out a strategic defense plan for the west coast. It’s out of the ordinary for sure, but we’re operating on the fly here.”
Pausing, tight lipped and frowning, it seemed the man had stopped breathing to listen to the President.
Then: “No, sir, there’s still hope.” More listening, a bit of stiff nodding. “If Camp Pendleton fails, Mr. President, we’ll evac to the next available base using intel from Sacramento.”
Pause, deep breath, flashed eyes.
He started to respond, but his voice broke. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “I didn’t realize that was the contingency, Mr. President.”
His face went two sheets lighter. In that moment, he turned and motioned everyone but MajGen Harper out.
No one needed to be told twice.
Outside the office, waiting, Camila and Jagger didn’t look at each other. One already knew what the other was thinking. What was more upsetting to Jagger was that none of the men even bothered to ogle 2ndLt Camila Cardoza. This alone left Jagger feeling sick. When men were no longer interested in the most beautiful woman in the room, there wasn’t just a problem, there was a veritable disaster in dire need of arresting.
After what felt like an eternity (but was in reality only three or four minutes), the door opened and MajGen Harper motioned everyone inside. LtGen Page’s face had gone even more pale, if that were possible. He was now smoking a fat Cuban, so perhaps his color would return.
Jagger flashed Camila a concerned look. She went pale as well seeing Page’s deathly still countenance and waxy complexion.
Page set his cigar on a glass ashtray, his face stripped of all emotion. To both Camila and Jagger, he said, “Get the CJCS to Sacramento. Gunnery Sergeant William Planck is in Five with your Valor topped off and ready for transport. If I told you to triple time it on the double, I would still be failing to convey to you the importance of you getting our guest to Sacramento. We’ve no time to spare. Your flight plan is being uploaded now.”
“Yes sir,” he and Camila said in perfect unison, waiting to be dismissed.
There was something resolute in his voice. None of the urgency he’d displayed before was seen. This visibly disturbed all of them. Being war tested, having spent time in the fray, that gave the consummate soldier a chance to develop a sense of calm inside the storm, but this was different. A sort of cold disconnection.
This wasn’t calm; this looked a lot like defeat.
LtGen Page grabbed the sweet smelling cigar, popped it into his mouth, drew from it deeply, a look of satisfaction crossing his weathered face.
“We’ll provide cover fire off the base, but expect to take some hits,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you that you’ll be on your own.”
Jagger’s stomach dropped.
If these drones clogged the Sacramento skies the same way Lenna said they occupied the San Francisco skies, then going in solo could very well be a death sentence for them all.
“If I may, sir,” Jagger asked, waiting for a reply that might not come. He knew full well he should just zip it and go—triple time it on the double as LtGen Page had suggested—but this was his last chance to get some answers from a man clearly in the know.
Page chewed down on the cigar in his mouth, really sinking his teeth into it. He un-holstered his sidearm, checked the chamber. He glared at Jagger as if he were a maggot rather than the CJCS’s best hope of survival. After a second, Page gave him the subtlest of nods.
“Is this far reaching?” Jagger asked. “The coordinated attacks, I mean?”
Laying his .45 on the table beside him, talking around his cigar, LtGen Page said, “It is.” He blew out a lungful of smoke, watched it swirl all around his head then break apart in the small room.
“Who are we fighting? I mean, who’s controlling these things? Is this the Chinese? The Russians? Why haven’t we seen any…humans?”
“You’re on a need to know basis, son. You have a job to do, now go do it instead of chapping my ass with puerile questions.”
“It’s a legitimate question, sir,” Camila chimed in.
Had she been a man, Page would’ve blown fire and death upon her. Had she been an ugly woman, it might have been worse. Men are predictable, though, and Camila had the good sense to understand that. She also knew the train had completely come off the tracks so pissing off the top brass wouldn’t garner her the dressing down she deserved. At least not now.
“The machines. AI. We’re not fighting a who, we’re fighting a what.”
“How is this possible?” Camila asked.
“Some brain in Silicon Valley decided to create an AI god he claimed would be millions of times smarter than humans.”
“That’s science fiction, sir,” someone said. “A tech head’s wet dream if ever there was one.”
“Well apparently it’s now science fact.”
“So a machine is doing all this?” Jagger asked.
Page drew a deep breath, blew out the smoke, then said, “This AI
god managed to reproduce himself dozens of times over without the geniuses in Palo Alto knowing, then ship them off to various sites across the US. They all came online at once, and when they did, their sole objective was to take our military from us, use it against us.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
No one said a word.
“Exactly,” Page said to the sickly looks on the faces around them.
“Aren’t there control measures for this?” Camila asked.
“Yes, but they’re not pretty. No more questions,” he said. “It’s time for you to go.”
The implications of this scenario tore a hole in Jagger’s guts. Not only was he filled with dread, he knew the tactical advantages the machines had over humans well enough to know the situation was beyond dire. Their transport was waiting though. And they had to go, regardless of their dismal chances of survival.
“Good luck, sir,” Jagger said to LtGen Page as he left the office with 2ndLT Cardoza in tow.
Camila and Jagger sprinted from Base Ops to Hangar Five where their Valor was waiting. After suiting up, Jagger took the controls and Camila ran second chair. Within moments they were airborne and taking substantial fire. True to Page’s word, they had just enough ground support to give them a small window out, which they managed without sustaining significant damage.
Jagger pushed the Valor as close to its top speed of 350 miles per hour as he could at a cruising altitude of one thousand feet. He settled in for the long flight to Sac, his mind still on LtGen Page’s last words.
“Marry our course settings to the uploaded flight plan,” Jagger said.
“Copy that,” Camila replied.
Turning, he looked at her and said, “What in the hell does puerile mean?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “It means trivial.”