Resistance (22 page)

Meanwhile, the platform continued to rise and Hale, Kawecki, Yorba, and Barrie poured automatic weapons fire into the ravening horde from point-blank range. The mad chatter of their weapons, combined with the screams of dying Hybrids, created a cacophony of sound.

Having emptied her Bullseye, Barrie drew both Reapers and fired them into the mob. Chimera fell like wheat before a combine, their bodies effectively blocking the beasts behind them while the elevator made its way upward.

Hale lobbed two grenades into the crowd just before it disappeared from sight, heard two slightly muffled explosions, and took pleasure in the knowledge that another half-dozen Chimera were dead.

But then the body-strewn platform delivered the team and their hard-won prize onto the building's flat roof. The AA batteries were still operational, and even though there were fewer ′brids than there had been before, those that remained began firing on the elevator as soon as it surfaced.

The closest Chimera were only a dozen feet away, and scored hits on both Kawecki and Yorba, but they were unable to put either Sentinel down before being killed themselves. That gave the humans control of one AA gun and the northwest corner of the roof. Though wounded, Kawecki and Yorba were still functional, and already starting to heal as they took cover behind the gun mount and shield.

Hale crouched next to Barrie, and they were protected by the metal cargo box as projectiles continued to slam
into it. He put the Bullseye down, and was prepping the Marksman for use when the radio transmission came in. “Hollywood to Echo-Six. We're inbound from the south. Do you read me? Over.”

The voice was familiar.

“Purvis? Is that you? Over.”

“Who the hell else would they send to retrieve your miserable ass?” the pilot replied. “I'm still on the shit list for making that drop north of Valentine. Over.”

“I'm sorry about that, I really am,” Hale said sincerely. “So how ′bout I buy you and your crew a drink? Or a couple of drinks? Assuming you can pluck us off this roof that is. Over.”

“Consider it done,” Purvis replied confidently. “And it'll be more than a couple. Over.”

“Don't bring the
Party Girl
in yet, though,” Hale advised. “We've got some stinks to deal with first—not to mention some AA batteries. Over.”

“Roger that,” Purvis replied. “How's the neighborhood? Over.”

“Nasty by now,” Hale answered. “Can you give me a couple of gun runs? Over.”

“Your wish is my command,” came the response. “I have two Sabre Jets circling at Angels five. They'd like nothing better than to hose that place down. Over.”

“Just keep them off the building,” Hale replied. “Echo-Six out.”

There was still a single Hybrid located at the southwest corner of the roof. It couldn't bring the AA gun into play because mechanical stops kept the weapon pointed skyward—but it could plink away at the humans from behind the weapon's shield. Hale solved the problem by launching a drone toward the stink. It flew
over
the AA battery, fired down on the ′brid, and killed it.

That ceded control of the entire west end of the roof to the humans as the first Sabre Jet roared in from the south. Rockets jumped off wing rails and sleeted in to hit a group of Steelheads on the ground as they jogged toward the building. Body parts were still cartwheeling through the air when the pilot fired his .50 caliber machine guns. The fighter was equipped with six of the weapons, and the hail of shells carved a path of destruction through the base. The plane was so low that they caught a glimpse of the pilot's helmeted head as he passed the building.

Meanwhile there were still two antiaircraft cannons operating, and as the stinks turned to watch the jet flash by, one of them brought its AA gun around in an attempt to fire on the Sabre, and exposed his back in the process. Hale saw the Marksman's reticle flash red, and fired. Blood sprayed the AA gun's shield as the ′brid slumped forward—and Yorba nailed another Chimera with his Auger. “That's for Pardo!” Yorba shouted.

Only one AA gun remained as another Sabre Jet made its run across the base. However, the pilot had a Chimeran fighter on his tail and barely managed to get off a flight of rockets before being forced to pull up in a desperate attempt to escape.

It was at that moment that Barrie got up and began to sprint toward the last AA battery, firing all the way.

“No!” Hale shouted and took off after her, but it was too late as a hail of Chimeran projectiles brought her down. That prompted Kawecki and Yorba to fire on the surviving stinks, both of whom ducked.

Hale paused next to Barrie's body, then pulled a grenade and pitched it in under the gun's shield. There was a flash of light as both Hybrids were blown apart.

Moments later the
Party Girl
was there, throwing its shadow over the roof, and Hale scooped Barrie up. She
was surprisingly light. There was blood on the front of her shirt and her eyes were open.

“Am I going to die?”

“No,” Hale said firmly, and even though he knew he couldn't be heard over the roar of the VTOL's engines, he could tell that she understood.

“You're a liar, Hale,” she said, as he leaned in close to hear.
“All
of us are going to die. The only question is when.”

She passed out as medics rushed to take charge of her, and the rest of the survivors entered the plane. Kawecki and Yorba made certain that the box of fuel rods was securely fastened to the D rings set into the deck. They took off seconds later with the port gunner firing like mad as a pair of Titans arrived from the north.

As the
Party Girl
turned toward the south, Hale knew that the mission had been successful. So why did it feel like a failure? That question, like so many others, went unanswered.

It was pitch black, with only the car's headlights to show the way.

The man called Twitch was behind the wheel, and had been ever since Henry Walker and his wife, Myra, had left Indianapolis two days earlier. Twitch was a runner, one of a very small group of men and women who dared to transport mail, medical supplies, and occasionally people back and forth between the government-controlled heartland and Chimera-occupied territory to the north.

Their destination was the city of Chicago, where the Walkers planned to join Freedom First and give that organization the recordings in which President Grace could be heard discussing what Walker viewed as treason.

The three of them had slept in the station wagon the day before, because they were well into what Twitch referred to as “the stink.” Chimera-occupied territory. So there was nowhere else to sleep except in a cold car, parked in an old barn, a hundred feet off the highway.

Now, as they listened to radio station WLK, and Twitch hummed along with Tony Bennett's “Cold, Cold
Heart,” Walker sat in the seat next to him, and Myra was propped sideways in the back seat.

Twitch had thinning hair, beady eyes, and a hatchet-shaped nose. A two-day growth of beard covered his gaunt cheeks. His incessant humming was starting to drive Walker crazy, and Twitch had a bad case of body odor, which was one of the reasons Myra had chosen to remain in the back seat.

Of course, we'll smell like Twitch soon
, Walker mused,
and it won't seem so bad then
.

It had been snowing on and off for days, so they had put chains on the tires, which rattled against the inside of the wheel wells as the vehicle followed the road northwest past the remains of Lowell off to the east. There weren't any tire tracks to follow, which was why Twitch was keeping the speed down to twenty-five miles per hour. It was a precaution Walker approved of.

The wash of the car's headlights provided Walker with occasional glimpses of empty houses, burned-out vehicles covered in snow, and clusters of improvised crosses. Drainage ditches were frequently used as makeshift graves because they were both handy and the right depth.

The journey rolled by rather peacefully, with only the soft murmur of the radio, the incessant whir of the heater, and the steady rattle of chains to keep Walker from falling asleep. But then, as the station wagon started up a long sloping hill, Twitch swore. He wasn't a talkative man, which made anything he said important enough to pay attention to.

Walker sat up straight. “What's wrong?”

“Lights,” Twitch said laconically, as his head gave an involuntary jerk to the left. “Behind us.”

Walker felt a heavy weight land in the pit of his stomach as he looked back over his shoulder, past Myra's
sleeping form, stretched out across the back seat. Twitch was right. There, about a quarter of a mile behind, two headlights could be seen through the filthy rear window. “Who are they?” he wondered out loud.

“Don't know,” Twitch answered grimly. “But I can tell you who they
aren't …
And that's friends of ours. You'd better wake your wife and get ready to bail out. If it's a car that belongs to human jackers, that's bad, ′cause they'll take everything we have and leave us to die, but if it's being driven by the Chimera, then we might as well blow our brains out and save them the trouble.”

It was a long speech for Twitch, and Walker knew the runner was serious. So he reached back to wake Myra.

“Wake up, hon … And lace up your boots. We have company.”

Myra sat up quickly, looked back, and saw the lights just before they disappeared into a dip. She made no response, but Walker knew she was scared, and had every right to be.

“It
could
be a coincidence,” Twitch said tersely, “but I doubt it. We can't turn off, because they'd just follow our tracks. And odds are they have a roadblock waiting for us up ahead, so I'm going to pull over. Grab your packs, get out, and run like hell … Then, assuming you get clear, make your way north. Sorry, folks, but that's the best I can do.”

“But what about you?” Myra wanted to know, as she pushed her husband's pack over the seat. Both of them secured their heavy winter coats, and put on thick gloves. “What will
you
do?”

“I'm going to turn the lights off, turn around, and run straight at them,” Twitch replied grimly. “They won't be expecting that. And, if I'm lucky, I'll squeeze past to the left or right.”

Walker had doubts. Was this some sort of an elaborate hoax? A way for Twitch to rid himself of his clients, without having to drive all the way to Chicago? The lights might belong to a friend of his, a person who had been paid to show up at that point, and would accompany Twitch back to Indianapolis.

Such a thing was possible, Walker knew that, but he didn't think so. Why go to so much trouble when Twitch could shoot his human cargo instead? So after accepting his pack, Walker unbuckled one of two money belts that he wore around his waist and laid it on the seat between them. The pockets were filled with gold double Eagle coins. The only kind of payment runners would accept anymore.

“There you go, Twitch … The second half of your fee.”

Twitch looked down, then straight ahead again.

“Thank you, Mr. Paulson … And one more thing …”

Walker's eyebrows rose.

“Yes?”

“If the stinks close in, shoot Mrs. Paulson right away.”

Walker felt a cold, clammy hand clutch at his intestines, and never got a chance to reply as the car skidded to a halt.

“Now!” Twitch said urgently, and he pointed. “Run east, that way!”

So Walker hopped out and opened the passenger-side door for Myra. She handed her husband the pump-action Winchester shotgun purchased in Indianapolis, and got out of the car.

They shut the doors in quick succession, and true to his word Twitch made a U-turn, skidding around until the tires found traction and the car headed back the way
it had come. A few seconds later it was gone, as a pair of beams appeared to the south.

Having already shouldered his pack, Walker helped position Myra's, and led his wife up off the road. There was a three-foot bank, and no sooner had they climbed it than a flash of light strobed the wintry landscape and a clap of what sounded like thunder rolled across the land.

“The bastards got Twitch,” Walker said bitterly while a fireball floated up into the night sky. “God damn them to hell!”

There was no time to wonder who—or what—the bastards were, or to mourn Twitch, as the headlights quickly grew brighter. The two of them turned and ran.

The snow was deep, however, and it was slow going. They hadn't made much progress when a loud thrumming noise filled the air. It came from above, some sort of aircraft. Suddenly a bright spotlight shot down to sweep the ground in front of the fugitives.

They changed course and ran north, both gasping for breath by that time, but to no avail. The spotlight—or the Chimera who were operating it—seemed to know exactly where they were as a circle of white light washed over them.

Walker pumped a shell into the shotgun's chamber, and was about to shoot Myra in the back of the head when a ball of blue light hit him from above. His muscles seized up and he fell helpless to the ground.

Myra was firing her pistol up into the air by then, but the puny .38 caliber bullets had no effect on the ship that was hovering above, and seconds later she, too, was lying on the ground, her face contorted in pain. Without warning the light disappeared as the aircraft responsible for it veered to the east, and the thrumming noise began to fade into the distance.

Walker struggled to regain control of his body, and had just managed to sit up when a cluster of handheld electric torches came bobbing out of the surrounding darkness. One of them was directed into his face as a pair of Hybrids jerked him to his feet.

“I have no idea whether you want to live,” a female voice said, “but if you do then don't resist.” The voice was human.

Walker was still processing the words when the pack was jerked off his back and alien fingers probed his clothing. They found and removed the .45, two spare magazines, and his folding knife. But other items, including Walker's wallet, compass, and the recorder taped to the small of his back were left where they were. Whether that was intentional, or the result of a sloppy search, wasn't clear. Later, after they had a chance to talk, Walker would discover that Myra's experience had been similar. It was as if the stinks were after weapons—but had no interest in anything else.