by Mark Tufo
“Our time may be short. If you want to stay here and make your peace, say your prayers, hope for rescue, I will not order you forward. Me, however? I’m going out with a bang.” I didn’t even look to see if I was the only one going; I really didn’t care.
“You always so dramatic?” BT asked.
“Part of my genetic makeup.”
“They’re all coming,” BT said after he took a quick glance behind us.
I had pride in my troops. I didn’t know if they would follow me into hell, and honestly, I figured it would be a lot warmer when they did.
We were quiet. We weren’t silent, though, and I almost paid for that distinction with the top of my head. A red beam zipped over me by no more than a couple of inches, if BT had been in the lead there would be smoking ruins under his hat. I’m ashamed to admit at the time I didn’t even think twice about it being BT. The consummate enemy was directly in front of me. Everything that I hated, loathed, that which in its own way had molded me into the perfect killing machine, it all came together to deliver all that violence, resentment, bitterness, and wrath into their ranks. They should have cowered, run, proselytized to the floor at my unbridled fury. I was willing rounds out of my rifle seemingly faster than it could handle. The Progerians had been suffering; they’d been a huddled mass doing their best to conserve some heat amongst them, but now, they were faced with an even more immediate threat and they rallied as best they could. As fast as one of them with a weapon went down, another was there to replace him.
I’d once mistakenly thought Progs didn’t fight because they couldn’t; in this nine-and-a-half-minute battle, they proved me wrong and I would never again make that assumption. They’d foregone attempting to use the M-16s, as the trigger and even the rifle itself was just too difficult a device for them to manage under the freezing conditions. Didn’t matter. The lethality of the ray guns in such close quarters was keeping us at bay. I had never stopped to realize that we were outmanned nearly ten to one. In the confines of the hallway, luckily, they could not use their numbers to their advantage; but one for one they could outlast us. The person immediately to Rhodes’ left exploded as he or she was the recipient of three beams. Why the Progs felt that person above all others needed to die, I don’t know. Blood and viscera peppered us, all I could think was it was the first warm thing I’d felt in almost an hour.
We were fighting like the battles of old, two lines firing into each other, though we were much closer and had more accurate weapons. The only reason we hadn’t been overrun was that the Progs could not shake off the cold as well as we could. Their movements were lethargic in comparison. They might not have been in top form, but they were not ready or willing to give up, either. I have to believe that they realized that I would not let any of them live, even if they did. The option to surrender has given countless thousands pause over the centuries. Most beings, humans included, will always choose to die later rather than die now. I had given the Progs their moment to lay down arms; there would not be another.
The mutes fought with a hatred, Genos for a cause; both were fierce, nigh unbeatable in ground battle. The Progs, though, outclassed them both in tenacity and sheer ferocity. We had cornered a wild animal and they were unleashing all of their ruthless fury. Men and women were becoming pulp all around me, yet all I could focus on was the recoil on my shoulder and the repositioning of my aim for the quickest kill shot. I lost a quarter of my platoon in under four minutes and another quarter were injured but continued to fight. Soon we would be too thin to do much damage. The plus side, if there is one to war, was that we had killed most of the Progs that held weapons. As they fell, warriors took their guns down with them where they got buried under mountains of flesh. When defenseless Progs came forward to dig for weapons, they became easy targets that we were all too happy to dispatch. For a full minute, we were the chainsaws and they were the great oaks. We cut through them with bone breaking impacts, skull snapping rounds, concussive chest blows. If I’d had a heart, maybe it would have bled for them. Instead, I was moving forward as I screamed my war yell. I would have nightmares about this day for the rest of mine–but they would have been tolerable, up to this point. That changed when the Progs, realizing their disadvantage, saw an opportunity to turn the tables. We were close, too close. I don’t know if I didn’t think they had the intestinal fortitude to charge, or I didn’t care. That first Prog that charged was summarily cut down, even the second and the third, maybe even the twentieth. The spraying of bones, of blood, of brains, was not a deterrent to the rest of the horde that barreled down on us.
Those of us left could not fire fast enough to keep them at bay. A claw swiped past my face and dug a trough into the bridge of my nose. What barely connected with me slammed into BT’s shoulder, sending him crashing into the far wall. I had my barrel pressed against the belly of the beast and had got two, possibly three rounds injected into him before I was nailed in the shoulder and bowled over. I felt my leg bend and break as the Prog stepped on it and propelled himself off with force. I’ve been told having your femur broken is about the most painful thing a human can experience. Words are one thing, like when someone tells you a lemon is sour or that a ghost pepper is hot. Sure, you have an idea of what that means, but until you’ve bitten into that pepper and got that first tingle of sweet followed by an ever-increasing torch of blistering oil on your tongue and down your throat that threatens to choke off your airway and burst your heart, you don’t really know.
If pain was nothingness, I would have been a master of Buddhism. I could think of nothing else, not BT, not my wife, not my kid. To have everything you are completely run over by a sensation…it’s indescribable. It wasn’t even “I was in pain;” I was just pain. It wasn’t attached to anything, because it was all encompassing. I was later told that I’d had my shoulder blade broken as well when the Prog’s other foot had come down. Like a flea landing on a volcano, I hadn’t even noticed. I would learn later that Colonel Talbot had rallied another platoon and attacked the Progerians from the rear, forcing them from our position. Instead of turning and fighting, the Progs had tactically withdrawn. Once again, I had stepped in a massive pile of shit and Tracy was there to clean up the mess. The carnage in such a small space was nearly incomprehensible.
Chapter 13
COLONEL TALBOT
“You don’t get that door open in the next twenty seconds, you will be peeling potatoes with your ass,” Tracy told the sergeant. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant or how she could make good on the threat, but that didn’t stop the man from redoubling his efforts to cut through the frozen-shut door. When the door popped open in eighteen-seconds, the man gave a heavy sigh of relief and moved to the side as the tactical squad filed inside. The cold dampened the noise, but it would have been impossible to completely suppress the screams of pain and rage coming from down the corridor. She was looking at the backs of nearly a hundred Progs, of those she could see, anyway. They were in a frenzy; those in the back were pushing forward. Whatever they were attacking was losing and losing badly.
“On me!” she shouted as she brought her rifle up to her shoulder and made the enemy pay for daring to turn their backs to her. Smoke filled the corridor; expended brass sizzled as it hit the cold floor. For every row of Progs they cut down, they advanced that many feet. It did not take the large creatures very long to figure out they were being attacked from behind. They turned almost simultaneously like a flock of birds in formation.
“First row kneel!” She’d effectively doubled her firepower in less than five-seconds, as those behind, still standing, now had effective and clear fields of fire. The Progs had a few weapons, but their primary tactic was to swarm and overwhelm.
“Hold!” Tracy cried as she saw a few of her troops starting to stand out of the corner of her eye. She dropped her expended magazine and in one fluid motion popped in a new one, slamming the bolt home and firing, all in under three-seconds. Still, she was concerned with how much ground the
Progs had made up in that short span. Much like those around her, she wanted to stand, and if not go running into the night, at least die on her feet. She willed herself to stay rooted as an example to those around her. A group behind the ones standing and shooting had got on all fours so that a row of shooters could get on their backs. She didn’t know whose idea it was, but that person was getting a promotion. Now she had three effective firing lines spraying a lead shower of lethal projectiles. Prog body parts were being blown all across the air, making footing for the ones that dared to keep moving forward that much more difficult.
Fifty Progs dead, then sixty; they could barely get out of their own way. They were no more than ten feet away and Tracy was expecting that her troops were about to take some serious casualties when, like they had before, with no discernible signal, they turned as a flock and were running away. She waited until she saw the first of the human defenders on the other side before she called for a cease fire.
“I think you have liquid steel running through your veins,” Beckert told her as he stepped down off the back of one of the men.
“Your idea?” she asked in reference to the raised platform.
“Thought you could use the help.”
“I think they can use it more than we can. Front line, go set up a defensive perimeter in front of the wounded. Back troops stay here and watch our six. I do not want to get caught in a pincer.” Her heart dropped when she saw the writhing wounded on the ground ahead of her. “Talbot, please don’t be here,” she whispered. In some instances, it was nearly impossible to tell where the dead Progs ended and the dead humans started. “Let’s go!” she ordered as they carefully started sliding Progs out of the way.
“Some of the Progs are still alive, ma'am!” a corporal shouted out as he backed away from a swipe.
“No time. Two to the head…but be careful!
No one wanted to take any chances getting sliced open after the battle was waged and won. Every Prog not obviously dead was given two to the skull before being moved. Tracy hated the delay, but her husband would understand the need not to risk others for his or anyone else’s sake. It was ten minutes later.
“Found the general!” came the shout. A bevy of personnel congregated to that spot. BT had been draped over Michael’s body; he moved stiffly as he sat up.
“His leg is broken,” BT said, trying to get his bearings. He fell over to the side, a deep, heavily bleeding gouge to the side of his head the culprit.
Mike was pale, but not as bad as she’d seen him at least a half dozen times. She winced at the awkward angle his leg was at. She did not take that he wasn’t screaming bloody murder as a good sign. That was until she saw the small vial of morphine protruding from his leg.
“Get Major Tynes some medical attention! Michael?” She came to a skidding slide by his head.”
“Pretty sure I’m going to live,” he told her before lapsing into unconsciousness.
She waited until all those that could still benefit from medical attention were evacuated before she began to look around.
“What is so important about this spot? Why were they so adamant to defend it?” She thought that perhaps this was just where they’d come to die, but they certainly hadn’t fought like they were in any rush to wander off into the great beyond. Against the wall about thirty yards from where she stood, was a heavy congregation of dead Progs. She wondered if that might be the key. “Fields, round up a dozen or so men, I want that checked out,” she pointed.
His eyebrows arched as he saw the anomaly for what it was. It was clear as they pulled bodies away that they had been attempting to protect something.
“Major, you’re going to want to see this,” Fields said. Tracy had been checking in with medical to see how her husband was doing. “I’ve heard about this but I’d never seen it in practice.” There were ten blasters on the ground in various states of disassembly.
“They were building a bomb,” she said.
“How effective could it be?” Fields asked.
“Drababan had one and he took down an entire apartment building. I can’t even imagine what that would have done in this hallway.”
Fields shuddered; there lay the potential to cripple the ship, making it a giant paper-weight floating helplessly and hopelessly throughout space for all time.
“We’re not done here. If they have any weapons on them they are certain to try this again,” Tracy said. “I want this deck flooded with soldiers. Follow the general’s command: there can be no quarter. We are fighting an enemy that has decided to go kamikaze. They no longer value their individual lives; they are doing this for their species. They will not surrender, do not be lulled into thinking they have given up under any circumstances. I understand what this decision means for us, but I value my species more. They have set the outcome of this battle. I’m going to medical to see the general and the other wounded, then I will be back down.”
“Ma’am, you are currently the commanding officer.”
“And?” Tracy asked.
“Free to do as you please.” Fields backed down from asking her to go and stay aboard the relative safety of the bridge. Tracy walked off on her own. Fields ordered an escort. He thought she may have bristled but at least she did not order them away. She could not lose the chill even after she left the sub-zero deck. She could not shake the sight of her husband, bloodied, battered and broken. She’d thought he was dead for the second time, and for a woman who never thought she needed another person in her life, she was suddenly unsure how she could continue on without him. She steeled herself for the worst when she entered sick bay. She walked over to the viewing area; Mike was shocked awake as Doctor Baker began to set his leg. She hit the speaker to hear the dialog within.
“I’ve already told you the morphine has lowered your heart rate too much! I can’t risk putting you under and I can’t wait until the drug wears off because I don’t know if your leg is cutting off any vital blood flow.”
“Doc, I am fucked up and I can still feel this. You don’t want to be slinging hash for the rest of your career, do you? I will feed you through a sausage grinder slowly!” Tracy smiled. That was her man.
“You are threatening the only person that can set your leg properly?” While he said this, he nodded to his nurses. One tightened the straps that crossed over his chest and the other placed a rubber tooth protector inside Mike’s mouth.
His chest strained to rise, his head was thrown back, his teeth clamped down hard enough on the rubber bit that Tracy was convinced he was going to sheer it in half. What had a moment before been a dry hospital gown was now sweat soaked and clinging to his body.
“Almost done, General, I promise.”
Tears involuntarily leaked from the corners of Mike’s clamped shut eyes.
“You ready?”
Mike nodded. Tracy backed away from the speaker as she heard the very audible sound of bone scraping on bone as Doctor Baker positioned it correctly. This was quickly overshadowed by Mike’s gagged screams of pain. The doctor worked quickly to cast the broken leg, Mike’s head lolled to the side as he began to pass out from the pain and strain. He spat out the mouth guard.
“Tell my wife I was brave,” was the last thing he said that night.
“She knows.” Tracy put her hand up to the glass.
Doc looked over at her and gave her the thumbs up signal; she thought maybe he was smiling, the way his eyes crinkled up. She spent some time looking in on the rest of the wounded before going to see BT.
“How’s Mike?” BT asked, he was looking up at the ceiling, obviously in a great deal of discomfort.
“Probably be as good as new once they pump some alien juice into him.”
“Good, because I’m going to want a piece of him after he heals.”
“Meaning?” Tracy asked.
“He snapped, Tracy. Like, lost it. The men and women that are here now, they don’t need to be. The men and women that died, they shouldn’t have. The freezing temperatur
es were working, wouldn’t have been long and the Progs would have just died on their own. Vengeance, revenge, spite…I don’t know what was driving him but he had to go and take his pound of flesh. He didn’t realize or he didn’t care that with that type of payment comes consequences, interest even. I hate to say this, I love the man, but I don’t think he’s fit for command.” BT was having a hard time making eye contact with Tracy.
“What if I told you that waging the all-out attack on the Progs when you did most likely saved this ship?”
BT turned to look at her. “This isn’t just something you would say to cover for your husband, is it?”
She shook her head. “I think you’re right. I’m not sure if Michael is fit for command, he is so unconventional, sometimes even irrational in just about everything he does. For some reason I have not figured out yet, BT, his actions, though unpredictable and flawed, tend to work out. The Progs were in the middle of building a bomb that could have done severe damage, if not crippled this ship. Many more would have died if not for the sacrifices of your unit.”
BT looked long and hard at her. “But Tracy he didn’t know that. He couldn’t have known that. He had much less noble reasons for why he attacked.”
“Focus on the outcome if you need to. Mike’s head might not always be in the right place–seldom is, really. But his heart, that never strays. He would never needlessly put any of us in danger if he wasn’t certain, deep down, that the situation did not dictate it. Fundamentally, on some instinctive, basic level, he knew it was imperative to stop the Progs in that hallway himself.”