by William Oday
The men of third squad braced themselves as the vehicle lurched to a stop.
Mason pulled ballistic goggles down over his eyes. The clear lenses kept out dust and shrapnel. He went through last minute checks on his M16A4 service rifle. Magazine seated. Round chambered. Scope uncovered. Good to go.
“Third squad, hydrate,” he yelled above the idling engine. You didn’t quench your thirst in the Iraqi desert. You hydrated to stay alive. Wearing fifty pounds of full battle-rattle in the searing afternoon sun would knock you down with heat exhaustion in no time. Even in the freezing cold nights, the dry desert air sucked moisture out of your body.
The track’s intercom squawked, “Dropping ramp.”
Mason stuck the mouthpiece to his hydration pack between his teeth and drained off several gulps.
“Third squad, you know the drill. Push out and establish security. Keep it locked down and we’ll be fine.”
The rear of the vehicle opened and dim morning light seeped in. The temperature plummeted in seconds. Mason shivered, longing for the scorching afternoon heat and also dreading it. The temperature in the desert never stayed just right for long.
Third squad piled out and set up overlapping fields of fire.
Mason studied the road to the south. It looked like the scene of a Hollywood movie. Twisted metal and concrete rubble filled the street. Huge craters pocked the ground where IEDs had gone off. He’d seen this very street through numerous unmanned aerial vehicle feeds as the little UAVs gathered critical intelligence on the enemy defenses and activities.
Still, a 2-D image on a monitor didn’t do justice to this devastation. The first block was almost completely leveled. The destruction was so thorough that Mason didn’t immediately see their next defensible position. He needed an intact house for that. He saw first squad ahead, about a block down, working the west side of the street. They were assigned to clear houses on the east side.
The amtrack closed the hatch and turned to head back to the safety of the command post at the train station.
There was no obvious enemy movement. Their immediate surroundings were quiet. Too quiet. Mason knew better than to lower his guard. Somewhere in the city, four thousand jihadis lurked. An international dream team of terrorists that weren’t there to liberate Fallujah from the evil, Western oppressor. They were there for two reasons.
To die as martyrs for their faith.
And to take out as many of his men as possible before that happened.
Mason chafed under the rules of engagement they’d been given. Don’t shoot unless the target committed a hostile act or clearly had the intention to commit one. He understood the need to safeguard the remaining civilian population, and also how collateral damage negatively affected the war effort. But his first priority was to keep his men safe and putting that judgement call before every pull of the trigger gave their enemy an advantage.
The task of determining who was a target could be difficult. And yet that split-second decision could mean the difference between going home in your boots or going home in a bag. A haji talking on a cell phone might be nothing. Then again, he might be calling in targets for mortar fire. Or he might be about to detonate an IED in their vicinity. A simple phone call was anything but in a war zone.
Even discerning intent with known hostiles could be difficult. They’d all heard about how an injured muj had begged to surrender and receive medical attention. A corpsman and another soldier approached him to provide medical care and take him into custody. They both ended up dead when he detonated a vest filled with explosives.
One of his guys on point shouted.
“Muj half a click south!”
A man dressed in a white dishdasha sprinted across the street. He held up the hem of the long garment as he ran. He carried no weapons so they couldn’t shoot.
“Hold your fire!” Mason shouted.
He prayed the man didn’t show up later launching an RPG at them. It was very unlikely that he was an innocent civilian. Army Psy-Ops had plastered Fallujah for weeks with pamphlets announcing the coming assault. Not all the details, just that it was coming and all civilians needed to evacuate. The brass said ninety plus percent of the civilian population had taken the advice and gotten out.
So anyone they ran into was likely to be the enemy. And yet, there was still a required determination before his men could respond.
Mason ground his teeth together. It was a messed up position to be in. But that was the job.
A distant explosion echoed up the street. Not a single man flinched. Their time at Camp Fallujah had numbed them to the background sounds of war. Mortar and RPG attacks were a daily occurrence at the base due to its close proximity to the city. Pretty quickly they’d keyed into the particular whistling pitch that meant a round was coming in danger close. They ignored the rest.
Mason spat out a thick brown stream onto the pavement. He motioned for Miro’s fire team to take point.
“Move out!”
He observed as his men moved forward in a bounding overwatch; two men in a covering position while two men advanced and then exchanging positions. They were squared away.
They were ready.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Last Day
Los Angeles Zoo, California
Beth sat on a work table in the lab, her injured leg propped up with a bright lamp illuminating it. Across the room, Jane’s inert form lay across the operating table. It had taken several hours to repair the damage Jack inflicted on her. Her body was a mass of lacerations, punctures, and avulsions. He’d torn her right ear off at the base. Her neck got the worst of it.
It had been touch and go for a while after the team had escorted her unconscious body to the operating room. Ralph wanted to help but Beth insisted he not endanger his employment when Diana was already on the rampage. She bandaged up his shoulder and sent him on his way. It would be tender for a few weeks, but he’d come out of his brush with violent death none the worse for wear.
She couldn’t say the same for Jane and her unborn infants.
Beth paused and glanced back at over the unconscious chimp. Electrical leads draped across her body and attached to shaved spots on her chest. Her heartbeat beeped across the monitor. She looked like a mangy dog from all the shaved areas around a multitude of bites and cuts.
Jane appeared stable, but she was weak. Very weak.
A tracheal tube was taped to her muzzle, securing the pipe that kept oxygen flowing into her lungs and, therefore, brain. Her throat was a bloody mess when they found her in the enclosure. Raspy, gurgling noises bubbled out as she struggled to breathe.
She almost died on the table, but Beth pulled her through. She wasn’t going to lose her now either.
Beth returned her attention to her leg and tugged the final suture tight. The tear on her thigh closed. She knotted it off and snipped the extra thread.
She took a deep breath and winced as pain stabbed in her chest. Nothing was broken, but the contusions would be bad. She’d get it looked at once Jane and her babies were safe. She applied antibacterial gel to the six-inch sutured wound and wrapped her thigh with gauze to keep it clean. Satisfied that an ER surgeon couldn’t have done better, she slipped back into a new pair of khaki work pants.
She’d survive her encounter with Jack. Move a little slow for a month or so, but it could have easily turned out far worse. She got lucky and she knew it. Still, one thing bothered her.
How did Jack get out?
Ralph was practically in tears assuring her he locked the holding cage. She didn’t have an answer when her least favorite person in the universe stormed through the swinging door at the far end of the lab.
Diana Richston.
She marched in like a general delivering the news to attack. Fire and brimstone burned in her eyes. Her dark business suit pant legs swished as she strode through the door.
“Not now, Diana.”
“Not now? Not now? Are you kidding me? You go and nearly get yourself
and another one of my staff killed and it’s ‘Not now.’”
“Yep.”
Single word responses seemed the safest bet. If she let out more than that, the dam might break and she didn’t know what might pour out.
“Now. We’ll discuss this now. What the hell were you thinking? We have safety protocols in place to prevent this sort of catastrophe.”
“Can we do this later?”
Diana set her hands on her hips and her jaw dropped.
“Later? Later? What makes you think you’ll have a later? You’ll be fired within the day. You’ll be lucky if the board doesn’t press criminal charges. And let me assure you, I will very much recommend they do. You’re a danger to this organization and I won’t stand for it.”
“I just saved this zoo’s star attraction. A pregnant Bili chimp in captivity is wonder bucks to the public. Don’t think I don’t know what Jane means to your bottom line!”
The last three words spat out like venom from a cobra.
“You, Ms. West, are the danger to Milagro Corporation’s bottom line. Every second you remain employed brings the imminent danger of liability and litigation. Consider this your informal notification of termination!”
“Diana?”
“Yes?”
“Get the hell out of my operating room.”
Diana’s chest puffed as she considered unleashing another withering outburst. “I’ll return later today with your official termination papers.”
Without another word, she spun on her shiny black heels and departed. The fading sound of rubbing pantsuit and clacking heels receded down the hall.
Beth sighed and rubbed her aching sternum.
Shit.
She’d probably lose her job. The only job she’d ever wanted. Working with animals that daily gave her joy like only they could.
So be it.
If saving Jane meant losing her job, so be it. She’d lose a hundred jobs if it gave the chimp a fighting chance.
She limped over to the operating table and watched as the automated ventilator bladder compressed, pushing oxygen into Jane’s lungs. Her chest expanded and slowly collapsed.
Beth slid her palm across the smooth fur on the big chimp’s belly. She remembered how much Jane loved getting rubbed there as an infant. She’d grown to nearly double Beth’s weight, but she’d always be her second baby.
The one that survived.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mason drove through the parking lot for the fifth time, hoping an empty spot would materialize. It didn’t. Whole Foods just after five was always a mob scene. It admittedly had some tasty food, and the deli in particular made a mean brick-oven pizza. But he tried to avoid the peak hours of lunch and the evening post-work rush.
Even considering that, today was different. There was a quiet intensity, almost a desperation, in the people as they jockeyed for parking or walking through the sea of cars toward the entrance.
He would’ve loved to bag this trip, but Mr. Piddles hadn’t eat his lunch. He apparently didn’t like the Fancy Feast Mason had picked up after he didn’t find cat food in the usual spot at the neighbor’s house. Oscar had a lot on his plate with Mabel. He’d likely forgotten.
So here Mason was, trying Whole Foods this time, hoping to get something delicious enough to please the finicky feline.
Mason gave up on parking in the packed lot and pulled out onto Rose and found a spot a block away. He donned his favorite LA Galaxy ball cap and pushed his dark shades a little tighter to his face. The evening sun in the west was a blinding, brilliant orange hue.
He walked the block back and approached the entrance. A uniformed police officer guarded the glass doors. A big hand-drawn sign hung above the entrance read CASH ONLY. NO EXCEPTIONS.
Things were definitely strange. He walked up to the gray-haired officer. A well-earned paunch hung over his black belt, signifying his length of time on the force.
“What’s going on?”
“I heard their computer registers went down and the repair guys haven’t shown up.”
“No, I mean with you being here. One doesn’t usually see an LAPD officer posting up at the local Whole Foods.”
“Yeah, that. Apparently folks have been getting a little out of hand today. Taking off with groceries and such. It’s like nobody carries cash anymore.”
Mason did. Emergency cash. He always had at least $500 in small bills on him. Three hundred in his wallet and two hundred in his back pocket. He preferred to be prepared, with backups.
A blast of welcome air conditioning washed across him as he entered. Fresh baked pizza wafted by and made his stomach grumble. He’d grab a slice or two after picking up a few cans of cat food.
He paused at the entrance, looking around. He’d seen it busy, but this was a whole other thing. The registers all had lines snaking back down the aisles behind. People rushed and pushed through each other to make headway.
This was the kind of panic buying you saw before a hurricane swooped into a Florida town. Folks must’ve been worried about the fires up north. Or else something he hadn’t heard about yet.
He twisted and turned his way through the press of flesh and made it to the pet food aisle. The selection was overwhelming. He didn’t think there’d be a paralyzing number of options.
He was wrong.
Non-GMO. Free Range. Organic. Whole Grain. Whole Chicken. There were at least twenty brands that all proudly proclaimed all the same things. One went so far as to guarantee that your cat will eat better than you do. That sounded insane, but Mason decided to go with it.
If Mr. Piddles rejected it, maybe he’d give it a shot. Maybe uber quality cat food was the treat he’d been missing out on his whole life. He grabbed a few cans and headed for the pizza stop. After burning his fingers accepting a steaming hot slice of five-cheese pizza, he burned his tongue taking a bite. He nibbled on the cooling edges as he jostled through the crowd and made it to the end of the shortest line.
It extended only half way down the aisle behind.
After waiting for what seemed like a geological age, and wishing he’d ordered two slices, he made it to the register. As he stepped forward, he noticed a change in the mass of people nearby. A shifting of focus. Their eyes stole glances in a unified direction.
He followed the angle and didn’t see anything extraordinary, aside from the sheer number of people.
The barrage of headlines at the magazine stand screamed into his eyeballs. He was about to look at the infinitely more interesting pipe work in the ceiling when one cover in particular caught his attention.
A headline shouted “Iridia Dumps Ryan!”
Was this the same supermodel Iridia that he was supposed to pick up later today?
The cover had a picture of the dumpee looking the most pathetic he’d probably ever looked. These magazines loved using pics that overplayed whatever story they were peddling. Mason recognized the guy. He was an actor. Had a movie earlier in the summer that was a huge hit. Death Before Life. Or something. He played a badass superhero that saved the world from an alien invasion. Or maybe it was a badass alien that saved the world from a superhero invasion. Mason didn’t see it. He just remembered Theresa swooning over this guy and talking about how buff and gorgeous and awesome he was.
Mason picked up the magazine. He wasn’t going to buy it, but maybe the story would hold something about Iridia that would be helpful.
The buzz of excitement around him again piqued his attention. He realized the focus of the energy was centered on the guy in line ahead of him. He wore a gray hoodie and huge black shades that covered half his face. He was beefy, even under a thick layer of fashionably cut sweatshirt.
Wait a second.
Mason held the magazine up next to the face of the hooded hipster.
“Not your best look,” Mason said.
“Do I really look that pathetic?”
Mason glanced back and forth from the picture to the reality. He shook his head.
; “Not today.”
“They always do that crap.”
“Is it true?”
“The break up?”
“Yeah.”
“Since last night, yes. I got a call from her agent. She broke up with me through her agent. Break up with me? By her agent? I just grossed a billion dollars at the box office!”
“What’s she like?”
“Gorgeous. Sex like a goddess granted to a mortal. Oh man, the thing she does with her tongue. It’s—“
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s great.”
“Was great. It’s over now.” His head dropped to his chest. “Could my life suck any worse?”
Mason looked away so Mr. Famous MegaBucks wouldn’t see him roll his eyes.
And that’s when he saw Cesar stroll through the front entrance like he owned the place.
Mason ducked his head and pulled the cap lower. The last thing he wanted right now was to engage that idiot.
“Life can always get worse.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The transaction up front finished and the cashier clucked her tongue while waiting for Mr. Famous to notice. The clucking grew louder. You didn’t hold up a cashier’s line. You didn’t mess with their system.
“You’re up,” Mason said and nodded ahead.
“Oh, thanks.”
Ryan dropped an all-natural, vitamin-enhanced, organic spring water energy drink in front of the cashier as her eyes opened wide.
“Are you—“
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God! I can’t wait to tell Juanita! I loved you in Death Before Life!”
She pulled out her phone.
“Can I get a pic? She won’t believe it without proof. I can’t believe it! I knew working here was going to pay off big time!”
Cashiers, however, had no problem holding up the line themselves apparently.
Ryan nodded and smiled.
“Sure.”
Mason snuck a glance as Cesar turned the corner at the registers and headed in his direction. His body language was relaxed. He hadn’t seen him.