The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  ********

  William Strickland flung open the door of the emergency stairwell. Immediately after swinging the door wide, he whirled back pinning himself to the wall as gunfire exploded from the hallway. Little concrete chunks spiraled in the air, trailed by puffs of dust and small clouds of debris. The metal railing at the edge of the landing erupted in a series of sparking impacts. Strickland turned his head as white-hot fragments flew in all directions in the small stairwell. The National Security Agency was renowned for their stealth and spy tactics, but they were not a military-trained organization and instead of scattering return fire, they had all run out of ammunition simultaneously, and then scrambled to reload.

  Using this very small gap in the assault, Strickland swung around the open door, lifted his SCAR and unloaded three swift barrages of rapid gunfire, holding the throttling weapon tight to direct his fire. Immediately, two agents went to the ground, and the attacker continued spinning until he was under cover at the other side of the open doorway. Gunshots returned, chewing apart the doorframe, but so far, the wall between the hallway and the landing held up against the rampant assault. The bald man walked down the stairwell a bit, still pinned to the wall, and then dropped, draping himself over the stairs and landing in a low posture, just barely poking his head out of the doorway, low to the ground. Another roar of gunfire from his assault rifle raked down the hall and dropped a third enemy agent, leaving two more returning fire with their M4 carbines. Strickland pulled himself back and already heard footsteps approaching the last two agents at a rapid pace.

  Ryan Sandidge arrived with four men in tactical gear, calling the others back.

  "Okay, you two, pull the fuck back. You're just going to get yourselves slaughtered," commanded Sandidge gesturing backwards with a reverse nod of his head. The two NSA agents seemed only too happy to comply and trotted down the hall, reloading their magazines. Sandidge pinned himself to the wall, which was around a slight curve in the hallway, allowing some semblance of cover from return fire.

  "The rest of you guys," Sandidge started, "form up on me. We're going to alternate fire on the doorway and keep your eyes open. This guy is dangerous with a capital "D!" Get me?"

  The other three men nodded assuredly and all lifted their weapons in preparation.

  Strickland peered carefully around the corner of the open doorway, looking for combatants, but saw none. He withdrew back into the landing and dropped down on one knee, then checked his magazine, pumped another one in his weapon and evened out his rapid breathing as much as he possibly could. The world opened up in another barrage of gunfire, and too late, he realized just how close he was to the open doorway. Chunks of wall disintegrated into sprayed wood and drywall plaster throughout the doorway, and he felt hot burns scrape the right side of his face. Grunting, he drew back just as another stream of bullets struck the frame of the door across the empty space from him, and ricocheted in several directions. A bullet buried itself in his right upper arm underneath a thump of fabric and dull red spout of blood, turning his grunt into a muffled shout. Grimacing, he flexed the fingers on his right hand, but quickly shut out the pain that he didn't have time to worry about. In fact, he didn't have time for any second-guessing.

  He had to move. And he had to move now.

  His legs curled underneath him in a crouching position, and he thrust himself forward, breaking into an immediate sprint. The response was instantaneous, as a single operative spun around the curve in the hallway and opened up with his G36c assault rifle, the weapon kicking in his hands and scattering 5.56-millimeter rounds throughout the narrow hallway. Vertical explosions of wood shards and floating red carpet spurted by his slamming feet as he narrowly outran the path of bullets. He dashed forward, twisting with the SCAR and unleashed a burst of gunfire, stitching across the chest of the enemy combatant. More men swung around and Strickland left the ground in a surge, leaping towards the far wall of the hallway, then pressed his legs into a crouch and shoved off, hurtling through the air in the opposite direction. He somersaulted slowly from one wall towards the other, twisting through a pair of bullet paths that screamed towards him down the narrow hall. As he moved through the air, he opened up on the SCAR, rattling gunfire towards the group of three opponents, and two of them sprawled backwards onto the thin carpet behind them. Ryan Sandidge moved up, lifting his own G36c into firing position while Strickland crested his cartwheel flip and spun over, coming down towards the floor.

  As Strickland flipped, his SCAR clicked on an empty magazine, and he cocked his arm back as the G36c roared to life, spewing sparks and smoke from the slender, stubby barrel. Whipping his arm forward, he released the SCAR, sending it spinning towards Sandidge, and it struck him firmly in the face, sending him stumbling as the G36 dropped from his hands. The bald ex-contractor landed in a crouch and immediately threw himself forward, red veins pulsing through his squinting eyes. Sandidge recovered quickly and lashed out with a sidekick, which caught Strickland in the upper torso, sending him stumbling backwards. Sandidge followed Strickland in his motion, slipping a knife from a sheath at the small of his back, and he struck down with a swift downward arc. The bald man leaned backwards as the blade slid through air, but then halted momentum and came back up in a quick slashing motion, striking Strickland in the ribs, right above his hip.

  Strickland shouted in surprise, and the red veins became a red shadow, his mouth contorting into an intense grimace of rage. Unimpressed, Sandidge threw a front kick, pushing his enemy backwards a few steps and then came forward again, his bloodied knife now pulled free of Strickland's flesh and ready to strike a second time. It came around in a sweep, but the other man was ready for it this time and sandwiched the arm between his two moving hands, then thrust the top hand backwards with enough force to splinter the ulna in the smooth area just below the junction of the wrist. Sandidge shouted in surprise and pain, stumbling back while his knife somersaulted slowly through the air, and Strickland advanced on him. Another handful of agents currently dashed over the thin walkway with glass railings, surrounded by open windows, leaving the area vulnerable to sniper fire.

  Advancing on Sandidge, he got in close, ensuring that the approaching agents wouldn't get a clean shot. As he approached his opponent, he bent low to the ground and scooped up his SCAR, then swung it up like Tiger Woods trying to nail a 400-yard drive. The butt of the solid metal weapon collided with Sandidge's jaw and shattered it, sending teeth and blood spinning through the air. As his enemy fell, so did Strickland, dropping low to the ground, his breath wheezing in his lungs and he drew another spare magazine from a pouch in his tactical vest. He let his momentum carry him against Sandidge and the far wall of the hallway, and then spun around, lifting his weapon. He unloaded towards the five approaching agents. Two of the men dropped as the remaining three opened fire and Strickland immediately took off running again, his SCAR lifted into the crook of his armpit, steadied by a slightly trembling left hand.

  Running diagonally through the hallway as bullets peppered the wall and floor, he took carefully aimed and measured shots, plunking two more agents and sending one of them cartwheeling over the walkway railing and spiraling down to the floor below. One agent now remained, but Strickland was more focused on the glass wall of windows behind the enemy. Pulling out his Glock 22 pistol from a rear holster, he fired off three rounds at the enemy, but he hadn't adjusted for the different rate of fire and kickback; the shots went wide. The NSA Agent rattled off a series of shots himself, but Strickland dove forward, somersaulting over the walkway, letting the weapon throw bullet fragments into the air in his wake.

  Anticipating a sniper shot, he carried himself to his feet, twisting and firing more 9-millimeter rounds with his Glock, finally throwing the last agent roughly against the wall just as every window facing out of the third level walkway imploded in showers of tiny glass daggers. Lifting his SCAR, he quickly shot at the ceiling tiles, sending plaster and small metallic chunks spewing downward into the hallw
ay, with just the skeleton of ceiling supports left behind. Tossing his SCAR about thirty feet ahead of him, Strickland leaped in the air as the second volley of sniper fire tore apart the walkway itself, reducing the concrete bridge to a smoking ruin, and he grasped one of the metallic supports in the ceiling.

  Swinging his legs forward, he catapulted himself into the air, flying like a pole vault, and landing in a graceful crouch about twenty-five feet beyond where he had been running. He stood up, clear of the opened windows, but a burst of gunfire left his victory temporary. The impact slammed him in the chest and his mouth went dry. Dropping to his knees, he coughed and spat blood upon the already red carpet, his chest and stomach aching. This momentary lapse forced the realization of how much the knife wound in his ribs surged. His shoulder throbbed as well, and he squinted his eyes tight as he lifted his head, looking forward. Ryan Sandidge walked towards him, one arm limply at his side, his wrist bent at a strange angle. Blood flowed freely from between his curled and swollen lips.

  "You mthafkr," he mumbled, barely able to form coherent words. He strode across the walkway, dodging the craters in the concrete, and avoiding the spots where it looked like the two sides of the bridge were barely connected by rebar. The barrage of .50 caliber sniper bullets from the roof next door had nearly decimated the connecting bridge between the two hallways. He clutched the G36c in his left hand and aimed shakily at Strickland whose muscles felt like barely-formed rubber. Prying his eyes open, Strickland looked back behind him and saw a group of NSA agents jogging towards him from behind, approaching from the far end of the hallway. Just through the huddled group, the door was set against the wall, and he knew that was his next stop.

  For the past several months, William Strickland had spent every waking moment trying to uncover this deep and dark secret about himself, battling to not succumb to the beast inside or give in to the savage fury that surged in every muscle and soak through every vessel of his body. It always roared just beneath the surface and it took most of his strength just to keep it under control.

  He no longer had the benefit of strength. He no longer had the benefit of time. He was surrounded, he was unarmed, he was wounded, and his target appeared to be only a hundred short yards away. Tears welling in his narrow, stern eyes, he longed to keep the beast hidden, and keep it under control, just long enough to solve this next mystery.

  But it had grown quickly hopeless. His back was against the wall and his well of options had run as dry as the Sahara.

  The bare metal of the muzzle of the G36c that Ryan Sandidge held pressed stiffly against the top of his head as he hung it low, coughing quietly, his body racked with pain. William Strickland closed his eyes, already throbbing with red haze, and relaxed himself, dropping his mind deep within the creature so shallowly buried inside. The realization was striking.

  He was the beast.

  The beast was him.

  Time to put it to use.