by J B Cantwell
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll help you.”
I unbuttoned the front of her fatigues and helped to ease her arm out of the sleeve. What I saw there made my stomach turn nearly as much as the elevator ride had.
The bullet had punctured her upper arm, making it all the way through and out the other side.
What in the world could I do about this?
I looked around at what remained of my crew.
“Anyone got any booze?” I asked, half kidding, half serious.
Jimmy, infantry, moved his weight from one side to the other.
“You,” I said. “Give it up.”
He sighed and did not grab for the alcohol I knew he must be hiding.
“I’ll tell them,” I said. “When we’re done here, I’ll tell Harris about this.”
“And I’ll tell him that you played surgeon instead of leading your crew,” he said.
I stood up and squared off with him, one hand still on my gun.
“This isn’t breaking any rule,” I said, unsure if I was actually accurate. “She can move on her own. She can continue to fight.” I stood up as straight as a board. “Hand it over.”
He hesitated, trying to figure out how serious I was. The truth was, it was a bluff. I could tell him anything and make it sound true. I, alone was special among these soldiers. I, alone had the upgraded chip, had gone through the phasing. My muscles had yet to shrink despite the months that had gone by since I had been laid out on that hospital bed, screaming in pain.
I let my fingers tap on my gun.
He sighed in defeat and reached into his pack, producing a small flask. I held out my hand expectantly, and after a moment of tug of war, he released it.
“Don’t worry, little lush,” whispered Mark. “There’s plenty here for the taking.”
He pulled down two large bottles of liquor from an upper cabinet. “Vodka” read the first label. I recognized the drink from all the bottles I had bought for Mom over the years. The second bottle, “Gin.”
Well, if we were about to die, at least it would be drunk and well-fed.
I knelt down at Lydia’s side again. She looked tired, and the blood that was now dripping down her arm worried me.
“Here,” I said. “Take some of this before I start.”
She seemed on the verge of sleep.
“Lydia,” I said, my voice louder. When she didn’t respond, I slapped her across the face, something I had been wanting to do for some time, even if she was an ally.
I realized she wasn’t going to take the flask, not on her own. So instead I poured a bit of the stinging alcohol onto her wound.
That woke her up. She moaned in pain. I was alarmed at the rate she seemed to be leaving us, losing consciousness. Surely she wouldn’t die from just one puncture wound. Would she?
I had nothing to do to help her. I had no needle and thread, no way to do much of anything.
But I couldn’t leave her behind, whether I found her trustworthy or not. She was in this with me, and I couldn’t bear to let her die from an injury that was comparatively mild to those of the soldiers downstairs.
I set the bandages down beside me and tied one tightly around the top of her shoulder as a tourniquet. She moaned again, protesting the pressure I was putting on her. Then I took several of the pieces and began to wrap them directly over the wound, the pressure only slightly less than the tourniquet. Immediately the blood started to soak through the bandages, and I found myself putting pressure on the wound, too, willing it to stop flowing.
Lydia’s eyes opened, and the look she gave me was so pathetic it made my chest hurt.
She tried to talk, but her words came out as a whisper, barely audible.
“I can’t understand you,” I said, leaning closer.
“You need to get to headquarters,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
I wondered if she thought she was going to die, so soon and from a painful injury, but not a lethal one.
“The entry into the Stilts is on the west side of the city. There’s a block of buildings that look filled in, part of the wall, but they aren’t. You can get there by moving through the buildings on the southwest corner of Broadway and 47th Street. Chambers will meet you in the diner on 8th Avenue. He’ll be expecting us both, but just in case …”
I tried to keep the surprise off my face as the others looked on, trying to overhear our conversation. I continued wrapping her arm as she spoke. Part of me was outraged that all these people were making my decisions for me. If I wanted to join the people in the Stilts, the Volunteers, I would do it. But it was starting to feel like I had no choice in the matter. I felt like a blank canvas that everyone else was painting on except me.
“There is no just in case,” I whispered. “You’ll make it out of here. I promise.”
She ignored me.
“Meet him when you’re on your week break, February 8th is when it begins. Find him at 0300 on the 10th. Be there before the sun rises, no matter what.”
Her eyes flickered, and she shuddered.
“Stay with me now,” I said. “Lydia.” I shook her good shoulder a bit, but that just brought on a new set of moans. I wished I had the pain medicine that they had given me back at the lake to ease the painful insert of the new chip into my brain.
I leaned over her and could hear her still breathing. There was nothing more I could do for her, and we were going to be stuck here for the night anyway. I dug a mylar blanket from my pack, unfolded it and lay it across her shivering body, tucking it around her like a mother tucking a child into bed.
I got up and carefully went to the window, only letting one eye look down over the city. Several Fighters were gathered in the street, clearly unsure of what to do. Drones flew over their heads, and they quickly took cover in a blown out building on the other side of the street.
None of them trained their guns on me. They were fleeing for their lives as much as we were.
“First watch, two hour intervals,” I said. “Hannah, you’re up first. Everyone else, try to get some sleep.”
There was grumbling.
Hannah and I moved the bookshelf away from the staircase door, just taking the smallest peek out into the landing. I was happy to find that the door was metal, and thick, too. The Fighters’ bullets would not make it through. Hannah took up her post at the top of the stairs, sitting down cross-legged and twisting a silencer onto her gun.
I turned back to what remained of my crew.
“You all know we need rest,” I whispered. “Lay down, whether you fall asleep or not. Just resting like that will give your body what it needs.”
I went back over and sat beside Lydia. Then, lying down next to her, I let myself drift off, hoping that my gauge of her injuries was correct. Hoping that she, that all of us, would make it through the night.
Chapter Three
I woke to Hannah shaking my arm.
“Time to get up, Pink,” she whispered.
I shivered, having given my blanket to Lydia. I hadn’t thought to look into her pack for another one.
“Get up,” she said, extending her hand.
I took it and hoisted myself up. I followed her to the stairway she had been guarding and joined her by the propped-open door.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Not a peep,” she whispered. “But it’s a long way down. Still, they might just be good at being silent. You know how those Fighters were in the woods. Not a breath from them, not a crack on a single twig as they moved through. Maybe they can make it up this far, I don’t know.”
Suddenly, I was no longer sleepy.
“Ok,” I said, strapping my rifle over my body. “Get some rest.”
She nodded and turned away toward the others.
I sat down to wait with the door propped open. Every tiny sound from within the apartment echoed against the staircase walls. The sound of breathing. The sound of the mylar blankets quietly crinkling. I quickly became frustrated and, finding a doorstop
, shoved it into place as I made my way out into the deserted landing. Here, only the sound of my own breath reached my ears.
I waited, listened, waited more. Despite the danger, I found myself starting to fade again. I had to stay awake. I pinched myself hard in the arm. It worked, but only for a few moments. The time seemed to crawl by. I checked my watch. 0430. Only half an hour in and I was already failing.
Then I heard it. It was barely audible. Footsteps, I was sure of it, but muffled by something. I had expected the boots that Fighters would wear, but these managed to make almost no sound at all.
Then breathing. The nearly gasping breaths of at least ten people, still many floors down. They tried to be quiet, but their bodies betrayed them.
I quietly opened the door behind me and shut it, locking it.
“Everybody up,” I whispered as loud as I dared. “Get your guns and your packs. We need to get out of here.”
There were no complaints, just fear and frustration on the eyes of my team. I went over and gently shook Lydia.
“You have to get up now,” I said, pulling on her good arm.
Her eyes opened wide with alarm and pain.
“Give it a minute,” I said. “But get up.”
I moved toward the other soldiers.
“We don’t know what will wait for us at the bottom. I doubt that it was only the ten or so I saw when I was looking at the street before.”
I touched the earpiece on the chip and spoke.
“Soldier Taylor to Prime Harris,” I said.
“Go for Prime Williams,” came the voice on the other side.
Williams.
Alex.
My voice caught in my throat. He was still alive, wherever he was.
“Um,” I said. “I just wanted to touch base. We are in a building on the thirty-fifth floor. We had to move inward when our hideout was attacked. We were unable to make it to the building Prime Harris ordered.”
When he spoke, he was all business. I searched for the familiarity inside his voice, told myself that it was there. Really. That it was masked, but still there.
“What’s your plan, soldier Taylor?” he asked, so formal.
“We will take the elevator down and come out guns blazing,” I said.
“Negative,” came his answer. “They may have cut the cable down below.”
My stomach dropped. Could they have? I hadn’t heard a sound, but would we have if they were working so many floors below us?
“There is only one staircase,” I argued, “and they are ascending now.”
“Negative,” he responded again. “Do not use the elevator.”
I removed my finger from my chip, essentially cutting off communication with him. I knew that his voice and mine had been projected into everyone else’s earpieces as well. But it was only I who was able to communicate back.
In the corner of the room, Lydia got shakily to her feet. I knew she wouldn’t make it halfway down the steps, even if there was no firefight to be had.
“What say you?” I asked the group.
They looked around, their eyes filled with fear. Fear of breaking protocol. Fear of the Burn. Fear of dying.
It was Mark who spoke up first.
“How many do you think are coming up that way?” he asked.
“Well …” I tried to put a guess together. “If it were me, I would leave half downstairs and half to tackle us here.”
Heads nodded.
I eyed the elevator.
“I think it’s our only chance,” I said, indicating the still wide doors.
“They’ll kill us for sure no matter which way we go,” Rachel said. She was short and stout, her bald head white as a cue ball on a pool table.
“This isn’t a democracy,” Mark said. “We have to follow orders. Or, should I say we have to follow your orders. If you tell us to take the elevator, we take it and either survive or die, you included.”
“What about the stairs?” I asked, more to myself than the others. It seemed to me that the Fighters down below could call everyone in the vicinity into the fight as soon as they saw us defending the top floor.
I had an idea.
“We need bait,” I said. “If we can get them all into the stairwell, we can escape through the elevator.”
I turned to them.
“Everybody in,” I said. “But don’t let it move. Wait for either me or the Fighters to enter the room before you take yourselves down to the lobby.”
“But what if they cut the cable like Prime Williams said?” asked Jimmy.
I paused, thinking.
“The chances that they’d have a tool to cut a cable that thick are slim,” I said, but I agreed to let them get into the elevator one at a time.
Lydia was first, bloody arm and all, and she wasn’t careful getting in. She shoved the chair aside and crammed her foot in the door, holding it open.
“Come on,” she said to the others. “Pink’s right. We could die either way, but this way there’s a chance.”
One by one, they grabbed for their packs, much heavier now with additions of canned rations. Hannah took Lydia’s, and helped her with the struggle of getting it onto her one good shoulder. She winced, holding her weapon with her bad arm.
“I’ll help you when we get out,” I said.
It was a crazy plan. I would stand on the landing until the Fighters got closer. I would fire several shots down into the stairwell, prompting them to call for reinforcements. Then, when I heard the clatter of more Fighters, I would stop firing and slam and lock the door, catching the elevator behind me.
My five remaining soldiers piled into the elevator, their faces odd and ghostly white from the overhead lights.
I unlocked the door and moved out onto the landing again, propping the door open with the doorstop, and waited.
They were trying to be quiet still, but their efforts failed them. I would need to start shooting soon, well before they got too close. I needed them to call the rest into the battle while they were still low enough in the building to minimize the threat I faced.
I peered over the ledge and, five or six floors below, I saw hands on the railings. They were close enough now, even too close already.
I aimed my gun and started firing. Several sharp gasps echoed through the hallway. I kept going, stopping at intervals to listen to what was going on downstairs. Their steps were faster now, and their feet were just visible beneath each landing. I fired again. This time when I stopped, I heard a voice I didn’t recognize speak in a whisper.
“We need reinforcements, NOW!” the man said.
They were getting too close now. Close enough that I wasn’t sure the lobby below would be cleared in time.
I fired another round of shots down the stairwell, clipping someone’s foot, another’s hand. Screams rang out, and I realized just how close they were.
I jumped back into the apartment, locking the door behind me. With all the force I had, I pushed the bookshelf over onto its side with a loud crash as it fell, blocking the doorway.
I stepped inside the elevator. Lydia moved her foot away from the door, almost letting it close before I caught it with my arm.
“No,” I said. “Not yet. The reinforcements aren’t there yet. They’re not in the stairwell. We need to wait.”
“Until what?” Mark asked.
“Until they break through the door,” I said, indicating the stairwell. “That’s our best chance of having most of the Fighters on their way up here. We wait.”
So we did. It wasn’t long before the banging on the door and shouting to their fellow Fighters began. Hannah made to grab onto my arm, but I resisted.
“Not yet,” I said.
I wanted to see them inside before I let the doors close.
Shots fired. I could hear the doorway banging into the bookshelf.
“Pink, we have to go,” Lydia said.
Still, I waited.
They kicked at the door, moving the bookcase inch by inch. Then, s
uddenly they were crawling in through the gap.
“Now,” I whispered, and I let the doors close.
Chapter Four
The elevator held, and I found I was talking to myself, out loud this time.
“Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.”
“Shut up,” Hannah hissed.
They were staring, I could tell, but my eyes were fixed on the numbers on the display as we descended.
13 … 12 … 11 …
“Everybody over,” I instructed. “Be ready to fire at anything that moves.”
7 … 6 … 5 …
We all crouched against the sides of the elevator, weapons ready.
“When it opens, fire,” I said. “And don’t stop firing.”
The elevator reached the ground floor, giving a loud “DING,” and the doors opened.
Two men, both of them dressed in no more but rags, stood before us.
“Now!” I shouted, though unsure if my direction had even been audible against the onslaught of bullets that flew out of the elevator.
The men fell to the ground, instantly killed by the attack.
“Don’t stop!” I yelled, and I pushed my way past them into the lobby.
Four more waited. Two at the front door, two at the stairwell. I concentrated on the front door as one of their bullets whizzed past my ear.
So close.
But it was only a matter of moments before they were both on the ground. Not before one had sent a spray of bullets our way, clipping Jim in the calf. He yelped and sank down to the elevator floor.
Someone, I wasn’t sure who, engaged the men at the stairwell, but the Fighters’ bullets flew across the elevator doorway, making it impossible to escape.
One of the men at the entry was still alive and firing. It made it impossible to come out far enough to attack the other two at the stairwell. I hugged the wall, reaching my arm around, firing blindly at the men by the stairway door.
A bullet from the man on the ground buzzed across my forearm, stripping away the skin.
I backed up again, hiding myself behind the wall. The injury was mild, especially compared to Lydia’s. And I noticed now that Jim has having trouble standing from the injury to his calf. He took what aim he could at the stairwell, firing again and again. Hannah blasted the last man at the front door, and soon we heard moaning instead of bullets.