Day 31 – Found
As the night wore on, only one flashlight was on and this muted with a shirt. It was an assurance to anyone that awoke that they weren’t doomed for eternity in hell, merely trapped inside its walls, with human demons above, ready to kill anything in their path. For now, it was the safest place to be.
Mike elbowed BT. “Now or never, or, I suppose, later, but now might be better.”
“What are you talking about?” BT asked as he awoke with a grumble.
“Everyone’s asleep.”
“I’m not saying I’m staying or going, but I would like to smell some fresh air; getting a little stale in here.”
Mike and BT slowly and with as little noise as possible moved to the stairs and the bulkhead door. Mike turned the handle, the sound preternaturally loud in the quiet they were trying to keep. They were up and onto the first floor without any incident.
“That went easier than expected,” Mike said.
“What did?” Mike spun when he heard Tracy speak.
“BT has to piss.”
“There are facilities down in the hold,” Tracy replied.
“He has performance issues,” Mike explained.
“And yet you’re with him.”
“Gotta watch his back.”
“So, apparently, a man that can’t urinate with others around is all right with one at his back?” she asked.
“I rub his shoulders; helps him relax.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” BT asked.
“What are you doing out here?” As Mike’s eyes adjusted, he saw the rifle she was holding.
“When did you figure out the handle?” Mike asked.
“About a half-hour ago. I was wondering if you were going to come through. I’ll be honest when I say I’d hoped you wouldn’t.”
“We’re not going anywhere; just came up to take a look at what happened.”
“Am I to believe someone who is caught red-handed?”
“Believe what you want, but we have no provisions or weapons. Seems if we were going to slink off into the night, we’d be a little more prepared,” BT said.
“Good one,” Mike told him.
“Just for this one time, will you try to keep quiet,” BT told him.
“Seriously, sergeant, we came out to take a look. Yeah, I was wrong about the handle at first, figured it out later, and, anyway, going topside then, was about as smart as willingly stepping on a landmine.”
“And after?”
Mike wasn’t sure what he could tell her. There was a better than average chance that if she even took a whiff of bullshit, she would shoot them with the rifle she had cradled in her arms. He went with the truth; he figured if he was going to die, it was going to be with his conscience clear.
“I was keeping our options open, Sarge. To help BT get to his wife.”
When Mike heard BT suck in air, he figured the other wasn’t a big fan of the direct approach—not this time, anyway.
“You would have deserted your post?”
“Does any part of me ring as a soldier?”
She took a moment to answer as she came closer. “No, I guess not. Maybe you are just as you appear: a self-centered narcissist, more interested in preserving his worthless life than helping a greater cause.”
“Ouch,” BT spoke. Mike was too shocked. “I can feel the heat of that burn from here. I’ll admit, Sergeant Yonts, I had Mike pigeon-holed when I first met him myself. Here was someone that could potentially have so much going for him but threw it all away with every opportunity presented. Then I got to know him, and that’s not entirely true.”
“Wow, brother. Way to drive that point home.” Mike was less than impressed.
“What I’m saying, Sergeant, is he is a good person at heart. He wasn’t leaving the platoon as much as he was going to help me get to my wife. There was nothing in it for him other than to be a decent person. And yes, as much as I want—no, I need—to get to my wife, I’d made up my mind and was willing to do everything I could to make sure this unit makes it to Missouri first.”
“We’re leaving in a few hours, and there’s not much to see up here. I suggest you two get some rest while you can,” she said as she went back down the trapdoor.
“Huh. Didn’t get shot. Wasn’t expecting that,” Mike said as he walked over the wall to relieve himself.
“Right there?”
“What? I don’t have performance issues. Oh man…that’s good. Been holding that in for hours.” Mike had just zipped up when they heard something move further down the hall.
“Rat?” BT whispered once they were together.
“I know sewer rats are huge, but that sounded like a two by four being dragged.”
“We need weapons.” BT was heading back to the hatch when Mike tapped him with the buttstock of a pistol.
“Thought you said you didn’t have any weapons?”
“I can lie pretty convincingly when my life is on the line, and this is a war zone. It would be pretty irresponsible of me to be out and about without some kind of protection; maybe you should think of that the next time you do something stupid.”
“The stupid thing I did was not hold down the button on the taser longer. I could have maybe fried a little sense into that head of yours.”
A light swept down the hallway as someone approached. Mike pressed up against the wall. He motioned for BT to follow. BT held up three fingers.
“Americans come out,” was said in a very Russian accent, followed by laughter. “I eat hot dogs for big boobs!” More laughter, followed by slurred speech in their native tongue.
“What the hell does that even mean?” Mike whispered the question.
“I shit apple pie on your baseball game!” The three soldiers laughed some more as they sat and passed around the bottle of vodka they had pilfered from one of the local bodegas.
“That’s all I can take.” An angry Mike said quietly, he was about to make a move before BT extended an am bar across his chest and prevented him from doing anything rash, which his nature practically dictated. “What the hell is wrong with you? He’s bad talking everything American.”
“Nothing worth getting killed over.”
“Yankees suck tailpipes of very large cars!” A burst of raucous laughter was followed by the smashing of an empty bottle against the wall.
“Motherfuckers.” BT had his lower lip clenched in his teeth.
“Oh, different story now.”
“And if he said something about the Red Sox?”
“Bullets would already be flying. But you’re right. We start shooting and we’re bound to bring an entire division in here,” Mike said. “Maybe we should just head back down until they’re gone.”
“Not a good idea. They might decide to sleep in this room, and we’d walk right into them.”
“Just what I wanted to do all night, guard duty.”
An hour and another bottle of vodka later, Mike and BT were still sitting against the wall on either side of the opening. The former was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open. Especially once the loud soldiers had settled down. At least one of them was asleep; he was snoring so loudly it was difficult to tell if the others had left or were also sleeping.
BT reached across the opening and lightly smacked Mike’s nodding head. He was immediately awake. BT had his fingers pressed to his mouth.
“Something’s happening.”
Both stood quickly. Mike wondered how he’d heard anything over the tree shredding machines in the other room. There was a sound not much louder than a paintball gun.
“Suppressed .22 or maybe subsonic 9mm,” BT said as two more shots were fired. The snoring, which had been as comforting as a blanket made from steel wool, was even less so when it suddenly stopped. Whoever had come in had taken care of the three soldiers, and, typically, that would have been a good thing, but Mike had a feeling the only person with big enough balls to do something like that would be….
“Pembroke,” Mike said breathlessly. “How many?”
BT took a quick peek, but if he gleaned any information, he did not relay it.
“Enough, I’m sure.” Mike answered his own question. “Get the platoon up; we’re going to have to leave earlier than anticipated.” Mike was keeping an eye down the hallway, his weapon at the ready. Just because he was pretty sure it was Pembroke didn’t mean it couldn’t be some special forces or New Yorkers who had recently become guerrilla freedom fighters. It would do no good to make another enemy; there were plenty of those to go around. Whoever was coming was slow, cautious, and thorough as they checked the other rooms. It was not lost on Mike that they were saving this avenue for last.
“What do we have?” Tracy had pressed up against Mike and was looking down the hallway. Mike nearly forgot the seriousness of the situation as he lost himself in the contact and the smell of her hair, which was inches from his nose as she leaned down.
“I um don’t know,” he answered when she elbowed him in the ribs. “Whoever it is killed three Russian soldiers with a suppressed weapon and is making a sweep of the building.” As he whispered in her ear, he wondered how angry she would be if he kissed her. He pulled back when he figured that the assassin squad working their way toward him would be a safer bet.
“Shit,” Tracy said as a canister that looked much like a discarded can of soup was tossed down the hallway, she pulled Mike down and landed on top of him just as an ear-splitting noise erupted along with a flash of cornea-melting light.
Smoke burned Mike’s nostrils as he rolled the dazed woman off of him. His brain felt like it had been bitch slapped into the side of his skull, and his eardrums had been used like speed bags. For some divine reason he would think on later, he could hear boots striking concrete as they ran down the hallway. The only chance they had was going to take a monumental effort on his part. He sat up, his upper half felt very much like a spinning top wobbling down. He pressed his back against the wall to stop the gyroscopic effect. Without looking or aiming, he stuck the pistol around the corner and pulled the trigger three times. Whoever had been coming must have been a lot closer than he’d realized because he felt the splash of hot blood against his hand, this, followed by the grunts and yells of someone shot. Return fire was immediate and withering, and, this time, not silenced.
Mike reached down and pulled Tracy closer to the wall with him as she struggled to regather her wits. By now, a few of the Guardsmen were coming out of the hole and getting into position.
“You hit?” BT asked as looked over at them.
“Flashbang.” Mike’s head hurt from the concussive nature of the device; he couldn’t even imagine what the sergeant was going through. He followed her lead and did his best not to complain about it, though he wanted to.
“We just want Mike and the cop!” the man who had been shot said. There was a dragging, shuffling sound as he pulled himself back down the hallway.
If there had been doubt about who had killed the soldiers, it had been removed.
“Who?” Tracy winced as she yelled, the sound hurting her damaged ears.
“Michael Talbot and the big cop with him, Officer Tynes,” the man said.
“There’s nobody here named that.”
“Are you seriously willing to die for those assholes?” the man grunted as he was pulled around the corner on the far side. Mike had looked long enough to see a pair of hands yank the injured man to safety.
“I have no desire to die, especially for some people I don’t know.”
“Sergeant Yonts? Is that who I’m speaking with? I am saddened that you would try to make me look stupid.” This time it was Pembroke that spoke. “You have injured my new lieutenant, and your group is directly responsible for his need to be promoted. It is imperative that spilled blood be repaid with spilled blood, otherwise, anarchy will ensue.”
“What is he doing here?” Mike asked no one in particular.
“Michael, I know you can hear me. It would be very unlike you to not be in the center of things. You could spare a great many people a very bloody ending if you but give yourself up.”
“What’s in it for me?” Mike asked as Tracy thumped his chest for speaking. “Did you seriously think he was going to believe I wasn’t here?”
“Now there’s no chance he won’t,” she told him.
“What’s in it for you? I can assure you nothing to your benefit except the knowledge that good people didn’t die trying and failing to protect you.”
“I’ll come out if you promise Tynes and the rest can go free.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” BT told him. “Don’t go getting all heroic and give yourself up for me.”
“Relax, he’ll never go for it,” Mike told him.
“I, umm, I’m not sure if I should be mad or not right now.” BT was perplexed.
“Your call, Sergeant,” Mike said.
“What do you mean, my call?”
“If you want, I’ll go out there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grenade must have messed you up worse than I thought. If you want, I’ll go out there so none of your platoon potentially dies.”
“None of our platoon. Like it or not, Talbot, you are part of this platoon, and I’d no sooner send one of them to die than I would you.”
“But me more, right?” Mike asked.
“What does that even mean?” she asked, a confused look upon her face.
“I can’t do that, Michael. Juicy, before you had him killed, talked to everyone he could about how you and the cop screwed me, and the only way I can make this right is by making great and terrible examples of you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be busy cozying up to the North Koreans? I can’t imagine they’ll be too thrilled to know you killed three of their allies,” Mike goaded.
“Who’s going to be left to tell them about it?” Pembroke asked.
“I did you a favor by killing Juicy. You realize he was trying to find ways to get rid of you and take over, right?”
“Juicy? He couldn’t take over a food truck.”
“You’d think that, but he was asking around about contracts and how much the hit would be.”
“And yet you never said anything?” Pembroke sounded bemused.
“I was waiting until he made the deal. The rate was 40 g’s, by the way. The day Yellowstone was blown, he was going to meet with Tony and give him half down as a deposit.”
“Bellito? The mob boss? You’re so full of shit I should just leave you here to make this place stink worse.”
“My guess? Bellito would have extorted the rest from you for the information instead of opening up that can of worms. Gang wars are bad for business.”
“Even if any of this is true, which I highly doubt, it changes nothing. I’m not going to kill you because of Juicy.”
“I’m just saying, if your trusted man was willing to turn on you, who else in your organization is next up?”
“I’ve never been one for rampant paranoia, so where are you planning on going with this? Do you think I’ll have a psychotic snap and kill those with me?”
“Wouldn’t hurt my feelings,” Mike said.
“What if I told you that I have a canister of sarin gas, would that be so funny?”
“That bad?” Mike asked Tracy.
“Yeah, that’s bad.” As if to reiterate, Pembroke spoke.
“It’s one of the most toxic nerve agents there are. I understand it’s a horrible way to die.”
“How’s it work?” Mike asked Tracy.
“It works by killing you. I don’t know the specifics other than it can be breathed in or by skin contact.”
“He’s bluffing.”
“How are you so sure about that?” she asked.
“Ten seconds, Michael, then I release the gas. Gas masks on,” he murmured to those around him, but just loudly enough that he could be heard by all.
“If it soaks into skin, they’d be wearing those rubber hazmat suits. The guy I shot was in fatigues.”
“Nine, eight, and so on, Michael.”
“Meh, go ahead and do it. Ever since I found out they’re no longer going to be able to make Hostess snack cakes I decided this isn’t a world I want to live in.”
BT could only shake his head.
“Big words. I wonder if everyone shares your sentiment?”
“Jesus, Pembroke, stop pontificating and pull the top.”
It would have been impossible to miss the distinctive hissing sound.
“That doesn’t sound like a bluff,” BT said as he pulled his shirt up over his nose.
“Smells like tear gas,” Tracy said.
“How do you know?” Mike asked.
“I figured you, of all people, would know,” BT told him.
“Sarin gas is odorless. We’d already very much be dying by now. But that doesn’t mean we’re not in trouble. Once our eyes start tearing up and we can’t breathe right,” she coughed, “we’ll be sitting ducks, if they have masks.”
“Back down the hole!” Mike urged, he had his hand cupped over his shirt-covered mouth and nose. The sergeant was right about the sting to his eyes, and the majority of the smoke traveling down the hallway hadn’t even got to them yet. Mike lifted a rifle from one of the soldiers before Tracy went down. He held his breath as best he could; small bouts of coughs slipped through the sides of his lips, expelling the limited amount of clean oxygen he had stored. His eyes were tearing so severely he couldn’t see much except refracted light through his nearly closed lids. He was a moment from saying ‘fuck it’ and heading down the hatch when he detected movement, more because the light coming from the hallway was blocked, rather than actually seeing a figure. He opened fire: two bullets down the center of the entrance. Whatever had been coming grunted loudly and fell over to the side. Shots came his way, but they were hastily fired and more for suppression than accuracy.
Anger welled up within Pembroke, anger that he could not rip this thorn free from his side. He let the anger get the best of him as he ordered another three men down the hallway.
“A gold bar to whoever brings me his head!” he said, sounding more like a 15th-century Medieval king than a 21st-century gangster.
Mike heard the order, and, even though his eyes were closed, it was still like shooting fish in a barrel…and how much did you actually need to see to accomplish that? A bullet whizzed by his head and a line of fire followed as it dug a shallow channel. He continued to shoot, knowing the only way to prevent it from happening again was to eliminate the threat.
“Go!” Pembroke was pushing people toward the opening. Flooding the enemy position had worked for the Russians in World War II; he didn’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work now. Mike felt that the gas was dissipating somewhat and attempted to resupply his starving lungs. He was rewarded with a mucous-filled, savage barking fit which made any sort of consistent shot-group impossible. Bodies of the dead or those writhing in agony-filled injuries began to clog the narrow passage. Mike could not help but think he was reliving the Battle of Thermopylae, though he was no Spartan. To be fair, his attackers weren’t the Persians, either.
“I’m going to rip your heart out with my bare hands!” Pembroke screamed. It was incredibly loud, considering it was partially muffled from the gas mask he wore.
“Waiting,” Mike said with a confidence he didn’t feel and oxygen he could not spare. He felt around the upper receiver and popped a finger into the open port. He was out of ammunition; he’d not thought to grab another magazine.
No more people came toward him, and no more bullets were fired. Either Mike had wholly removed the threat, or, more likely, Pembroke’s men were in mutiny mode and did not wish to greet death at the behest of another.
Acrid smoke from the discharge of bullets was a welcome smell, as the tear gas began to fade. Mike was able to open his eyes to the horrors staring back at him; two grievously wounded men were doing their best to crawl back from where they’d come, another had a neat cylindrical hole punched into the right eye lens of his mask, the eye was obliterated upon contact. He’d not realized they’d got so close. He moved quickly from behind the desk and wrenched the rifle free from an owner who, if they had the classic bumper sticker regarding prying a firearm from their cold dead hands, had just had their prophecy fulfilled. He now had an AK-47 in his possession, though he had no idea how many rounds. Could have been none, as he knew that, unlike the M-16, the bolt didn’t stay open upon firing the last round. He didn’t dare make a sound in the ensuing quiet.
“You still alive, Mike?” Pembroke asked. It was almost tender, like the fire that burned in his belly had been extinguished.
Mike stayed quiet as he moved closer and grabbed another weapon. The sound of the rifle strap buckle scraping against the concrete was drowned out by the moans of the injured.
“Your betrayal hurts more than I care to admit. This is what happens when you get soft.” Mike had not been ready for, nor expecting the quickness with which Pembroke moved. He came around the corner and blasted the wounded man in the skull for having the nerve to cry out in pain while Pembroke spoke his piece. Mike had the rifle down by his hip but still managed to fire three quick rounds. Concrete was scored as the bullets slammed into the wall near to where Pembroke was. The other had pulled back as quickly as he’d appeared.
“A part of me is happy you’re still alive, but only the part that can’t wait to kill you. Does that make sense?”
Mike could only wonder if the old man had finally lost his mind; it didn’t make him any less dangerous, just something to think upon.
“This isn’t over,” Pembroke said. Mike could hear footfalls as they left the area; it sounded like more than one set, but he couldn’t be sure, and he wasn’t in the mood to find out. He leaned against the wall and let out a stress-filled breath. The battle hadn’t lasted more than a couple of minutes, yet Mike felt as if he’d aged ten years.
There was a banging on the hatch below, Mike stumbled toward it and pushed up on the desk, BT’s head popped up, along with his rifle.
“You okay? Been trying to get up here—the fucking door was jammed again. Holy shit,” he said as he came all the way out and spotted the carnage. Tracy was next, along with four others. She glanced at Mike before moving forward to secure the area.
“I’m sick of this shit,” Mike said as he wiped away the tears and snot from his face. He went back downstairs, washed his face and grabbed his rifle.
“All clear.” By the time he came back, he heard Tracy issue the statement. “I think it best if we head out now,” she told Mike and BT before telling those below to grab their gear and get ready to go. “Good job here.” She patted Mike on the shoulder before telling those with her to clear a path through the hallway.
It was tough for him to feel good about it as he looked upon a half dozen or so dead men that he was directly responsible for killing.
“This is on Pembroke, not you,” BT said as he watched Mike.
“I wish I could tell you that makes what I’m feeling better.” Mike could not pull his gaze from the dead.
“Let’s go.” BT led Mike out and through the pools of blood that had accumulated. Mike found the deterrent smell in the atrium preferable over the iron-rich blood odor that had permeated the small space he’d been in. Within twenty minutes, they were picking their way through what could now be considered war-torn streets.
“You see pictures like this on tv or the internet never thinking it could happen here.” Mike had stepped around a chunk of building bigger than a sedan. The smoke was thick, but they’d yet to see any people, whether friend or foe.
“Where do fourteen million people go?” BT asked as the group wound its way through the city.
“Are we headed to the George Washington Bridge?” Mike asked BT.
“Looks that way.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me neither…perfect chokepoint. But it’s the fastest way out of here.”
“Pretty sure the Koreans know that too.”
The sergeant was doing her best to keep them off the highway, knowing that would be patrolled. They crossed the University Heights Bridge with no incident. By now, they’d seen a few people, but those few had wanted nothing to do with the group and scurried away when they realized they’d been seen.
“They have to realize we’re American, right?” Mike asked.
“When a woman is beaten by a man, she comes to fear all men…for a while, anyway,” BT told him. “Looks like we’re heading for 9A,” he said after they walked a while longer. “Should be able to see the Hudson soon; smart on her part. Get a look at the bridge from a safe distance.”
A trio of cars raced by, heading away from the bridge. Mike didn’t take that as a favorable sign.
“You hear that noise?” he asked. It sounded like what one might encounter in a fairy tale, perhaps an enormous giant lumbering down a stalk, or a slumbering pack of trolls awakening from eons of sleep.
“Tough to miss,” BT answered.
The entire group was on edge with the new development. They crossed the highway and the greenway on the other side, and they stood on the banks of the river. Though it was dark out, it would have been impossible not to see the flotsam that floated past. And even if it had been a cloud-covered, moonless evening, the grinding and squelching of wood, plastics, and a variety of other materials would have been impossible to miss.
“There’s whole fucking houses sliding down the river.” Mike’s mouth was hanging open. There was intermittent crying among the group as they witnessed firsthand the devastation of war on their home.
Sergeant Yonts didn’t want their morale to slip any lower than it had. She ushered them toward the bridge, which was brightly lit, not from the structure’s lighting system, but rather the thousands of cars on it. Gridlock, in this case, would be considered a mild term of traffic. Clusterfuck began to approach the appropriate level. Many of the cars had slammed into the rear of the vehicle ahead of them, some in anger, some in fear, but in all cases to see if they could force a way through. Some had tried to go around and got hung up on the safety railing. The lights twinkled like distant stars as those on foot or who had abandoned their rides walked past, obscuring them.
“Can people survive that jump?” Mike asked, looking from the lower deck of the two-story bridge to the water.
“Not even remotely.”
“Seriously? How high is it?”
“About two hundred feet, and at that height, when a person hits the water, it might as well be concrete.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mike, I have seen more people pulled out of the water after taking a swan dive than I care to think about, and they all looked like they’d been hit by a semi moving seventy miles an hour down the expressway. Why are you asking?”
“Because once we’re on that thing, I’d like options.”
“Flying isn’t one of them.”
Refugees were flowing past the platoon by the thousands, as the group stood off to the side of the roadway leading up to the bridge. It was eerie how quiet the scene was. There was no fighting, shooting or shouting, plenty of sobs and shuffling, but little else as the downtrodden marched on.