Chapter 2

"Tyson! Tyson, we gotta go, now!"

Someone was calling him. He was frantic to not only sight the source but recognize the owner of the voice. Who was that? A survivor of his squad? He'd entered the terminal from the desolate tracks and come in from the storage basements below; he had joined with a platoon of both paratroopers and Marines, mixed U.S. military and some ISA troops as well. He hadn't become real familiar with any of them, however, especially due to their general separation during the infiltration—their Intel proved wrong: the Helghast had severely infested the terminal, hoping to make it their stronghold.

And we're here to take it back, Tyson had thought.

So who was this that called him? One of his trivial acquaintances from Charlie Platoon…or a survivor of 4th Battalion?

He swung his head this-way-and-that, his gaze scanning his surroundings although the confinement on second floor—and particularly in the cubby—permitted barely any room for surveillance. SO he crouched, staying low to avoid getting shot in the head, but kept his eyes wide open and his ears especially attentive. The shout came again, this time louder and more lucid, but also more fierce.

Tyson could only discern two obvious things: it was a male soldier, and he meant what he was saying.

I gotta get outta here, he thought, dittoing the invisible soldier's calls. Now…but where?

Tyson didn't have the answers, just the questions.

He scampered down the hallway on the second floor, keeping his head low and cautiously but swiftly circumventing the next corner. As he did so, suddenly, the crackling sound of a Helghan shotgun being shot erupted, and no more than a foot ahead of him came the spray of buckshot. He peered around the corner, then, holding his ground and remembering the fallen Marine's M13 back where he had been, but keeping his position for the time being. There, ahead and by a toppled-over vending machine, stood an ISA soldier at close-quarters with a Helghast. The Helghast grunt had apparently missed the man, despite their proximity, as Tyson saw the ISA troop's hand trying to bat down the shotgun.

It wasn't just a shotgun, however.

It was the Helghast's primary assault rifle, fashioned after the Earthbound Heckler & Koch G36, but bulkier to fit its unique cylindrical magazine and—most prominently—the underlying shotgun attachment. It was a single-shot 12gauge shotgun capable of extreme lethality up-close, but further than a few meters left it useless. And yet this soldier seemed to be warding off the Helghast's potential armed weapon successively, though with ease it was difficult to confirm.

They were in a dead-lock of both arms and legs, so the only thing missing in this typical close-quarters standoff was a knife.

Suddenly the Helghast did the smart thing to do, although with its facemask and headgear equipped Tyson understood why the ISA soldier hadn't tried it already. He suddenly headbutted the man, breaking his nose in a spurt of blood and knocking him astern. The soldier, disoriented, staggered rearward before falling unto his back. He struggled to reach his holstered sidearm while the Helghast took to aim his LAR. He took his precious time, even, to insert a fresh 12gauge shell into the shotgun's tubular single-shot magazine, cocking it and undoubtedly grinning a wicked grin beneath that facemask.

Tyson took the time to act.

He spun around the corner, M82G prepared to fire at the hip. He snarled ferociously, irately, as he pulled back on the trigger. The assault rifle rocked in his arms as he unloaded on the unsuspecting Helghast. A dozen 5.56mm semi-AP bullets slammed into the Helghast's front, crawling up from his stomach to his face in a matter of seconds. In a mist of emitted blood and an agonal cry as his life slipped away, the Helghast collapsed in a heap.

"Goddamn…sonofabitch," Tyson grunted as he slung the assault rifle and approached the fallen Marine. He held out his hand. The ISA troop with the bloodied nose took it without much ado; he cupped his broken nose with the other hand, though, as Tyson pulled him to his feet.

"Jesus Christ…look at you," the soldier said in astonishment, looking over the Hulk of a man who had saved him from presumable death. "Can…can ya hear me in there?"

Tyson let out a deep sigh that sounded more like Darth Vader thanks to the facemask.

He nodded.

"What's your name?" the soldier asked.

"Tyson. Zach Tyson of the ISAEE 4th Battalion. You, brother?"

Tyson spoke of the ISA Earth Establishment, one level below the Marine Corps in the U.S. though a priority internationally on the planet. It was pronounced casually as "I-Say" among troops, and was both feared and respected globally, much like the Feds are in the States. Of course, to this man here the fully-armored soldier before him appeared nothing like the typical ISAEE combatant, but that didn't stop him from befriending who had just saved his life—and subsequently called him brother. The soldier probably figured this was mostly because the masked ISAEE troop before him had recognized his own mustard-yellow neck collar, boots, and waistband particular to any ISA regiment.

"Kay Fox of 7th Battalion, ISAEE. Brother."

Fox grinned. Tyson smirked beneath his mask then let out a faint chuckle. He returned the assault rifle to his hands and tilted his chin up to his new comrade, noticing a lack of a primary weapon.

"You got a gun, Fox?"

"No, uh, I ran out o' ammo for my M82…say, twenty minutes back."

"You've gone twenty minutes without a main weapon?" Tyson said, impressed. "That's pretty damn impressive."

"Impressive?" Fox said, smirking, sizing-up Tyson. "Shit, man, look at you—you're impressive. I mean, for chrissakes, you're like the Juggernaut."

Tyson wasn't all too familiar with the X-Men, but he knew the term in basic English.

He shrugged at this compliment.

"Hey, you said your name's Tyson, right?" Fox said, brow furrowed in curiosity. He unholstered his M4 pistol, bringing it to arms.

Tyson nodded.

"'Cause I swore I heard someone calling out to you—"

"Ah, shit," Tyson cursed under his breath. He held up a finger in a 'one moment' beckon and retreated back to where he'd come. He left Fox speechless, then returned with the M13 shotgun. He held it out, proffering it to Fox.

"A gift from the Marines," Tyson said sardonically, haste in his voice and causing him to tic with impatience.

"Uh, thanks," was all Fox could say, taking it and checking the tubular magazine. It was half full. He cocked the sliding stock and began to say something when Tyson seized his arm.

"We gotta roll, now," Tyson said solemnly, forcing Fox to follow him.

"Why, what's wrong?" Fox asked, tearing himself loose of Tyson's strong grasp so he could follow him at his own free will.

"I dunno, I really don't—since this place used to be overrun with Helghast and now we've seem to taken it back over, but that guy who was calling for me…and I can't say I recognized his voice, 'cause I haven't seen him yet…was telling me to get out. Right now. And that was a good five minutes ago. So, uh, you get the point."

Fox had a few questions of his own, just as he supposed Tyson did, too, so he wasn't going to pry him for answers. Instead, he followed—mum—with the M4 back in its holster and his new shotgun in his hands, ready for action.

"Tyson! Tyson, where the hell are you!?"

There's that voice again. This time it was louder, much more clear and thus that much more near. But Tyson didn't see him, so he did his best to follow his voice. That had become relatively easy, now, considering the lack of gunfire present due to the sudden fall of Helghast and the rise of friendlies.

Yet he saw nobody; nobody but Fox and dead bodies littering the floors, blood on the walls, black smolder from explosions everywhere else.

"I'm over here!" he called out in response, curving to enter a cubby which had a staircase leading down to the first floor. "Up here, second floor—staircase!"

Suddenly a Helghast roared, a warcry of unintelligible speech and sheer guttural fury.

Tyson sensed it was close. And so was the ensuing wallop of a fist connecting with a jaw, then the slumping fall of an unconscious body. Tyson cautiously but hastily descended down the stairs, curving the first corner and jump with a startle, raising his gun then quickly lowering it in recognition.

There, ahead of him by a few feet in a small space that would turn the other way and lead down another set of stairs to the first floor, stood an ISAEE soldier. From the brevity of glances exchanged, neither Tyson nor Fox knew this man, although he surely knew—or knew something of—Tyson.

"Sergeant Grant Fuller, ISAEE 1st Battalion," he said, shaking his right hand for it hurt.

Down at his feet, crumpled up with back to the wall and legs splayed out, was a lightweight Helghast soldier. The kind with barely any armor on and no facemask, only a pair of red-tinted goggles to lessen the vacancy of his bald head. A LAR lay in his lap, and he looked unconscious.

Fuller looked the two soldiers dead in the eyes as he unholstered his M4 pistol and put two rounds—just to be sure—into the incapacitated Helghast's pate. His chest ceased moving with breath and his body went flaccid, falling to his side. The LAR rolled out of his lap. Fuller spoke as he holstered the M4, safety on, and stooped to retrieve the Helghan assault rifle.

"You don't recognize me, Tyson, I know," he said. "But I was given your description—your armor, more precisely put—by the ISAEE HQ in Santa Fe."

"Me? Why me?"

"Don't bullshit me now, Tyson, you're one of the best—but we'll get to that later."

Tyson wasn't going to argue, although he wanted to.

"Okay, then answer me this: why do we need to get outta here? It seems we've won the battle, here. The Terminal's ours, Sarge, the Helghast have been defeated."

"No, they've retreated. We managed to kill about half of their force, here, and 'cause they had no reinforcements they decided to go to their last resort."

"Which is?" Fox pressed.

"Do I really need to spell it out to you before we can comfortably get the hell outta here?"

"Preferably," Tyson mumbled.

"Ugh," Fuller sighed, rolling his eyes. "The Helghast have armed a bomb, and it's set to go off at any minute…who knows what their timer was, but I don't doubt it's short 'n' sweet for their sake."

"Ah, dammit," Tyson sighed. "Where is it located?"

"We believe in the generator room," Fuller said, turning his back on the men and heading down the stairs.

Tyson and Fox weren't going to hesitate; they followed him.

"Is there any chance we could—"

"Find and disarm it?" Fuller interjected. "No, not unless you're willing to risk life 'n' limb on the task, I doubt it. We're already evacuated most of our forces, including the Marines, and God knows the Helghast are probably long gone…"

"What's your estimated blast radius for this thing?" Tyson asked.

Fuller picked up speed, now, heading out towards the entrance of the station on the first floor. He passed through a pair of inactive walkthrough metal-detectors en route to open double-doors when he answered.

"Well, considering the detonation of the Sears Tower in Chicago—which took out about half a block's radius—I'd say big. Real big."

"Wonderful," Tyson mumbled.

The three had gained speed, now, getting Fuller's point.

They sprinted out the doors and into the bright daylight of the exterior parking lot. Here cars were lit in flames, while others were wrecked, while a few were fortunate to survive the Helghan onslaught hours ago. There was a squadron of AH-64 Apache choppers already airborne, and already fleeing. Two more were just now lifting, leaving but a ninth with doors open and rotors whirring. The helicopter's interior was empty of passengers, leaving only the pilot and co-pilot to occupy the aircraft for now.

They were waiting on Fuller, however, and Tyson. Fox, now, too.

Anyone who hadn't exited the terminal yet was certainly doomed, especially when the three boarded the Apache and it immediately began its ascent.

"I thought they wanted to take over the planet, not destroy it!" Fox screamed over the roaring of the helicopter rotors. "They're acting like terrorists, bombing shit left 'n' right!"

As they ascended, the doors still open but the men hanging on, their aerial view of the railway terminal expanded vastly.

With the assault rifle across his lap, Tyson removed his helmet and cradled it under his arm, then lifted his facemask so he could breathe more comfortably and see further. This was the first time either of his two befriended comrades had seen his face—for Fuller, at least, in-person—but now didn't seem the time for palaver.

"That's what they do, though," Fuller yelled in response to Fox. "They demolish anything and everything, whatever we hold dearest—be it our families, friends, or anything as simple as buildings—then will commence their own ruthless reconstruction once it's all been eradicated. Their own reformation."

His voice was fading, now, as the Apache's rotors whirred and its engine snarled. The military chopper tilted as it swung to depart with the others in mass exodus.

"They're gonna pay for this," Tyson mumbled as he watched the expected…

"What?" Fox inquired. Fuller just looked at Tyson, and his grave countenance.

Then all their eyes turned to what instantly unfolded below them.

The Thompson Terminal was a vast structure, stretching over a few acres above ground and then yet another below. Then suddenly something erupted from its bowels, in the generator room in fact, and a shockwave of pressure flashed through a quarter-mile radius from within the building. The shockwave doubled itself, then retreated instantaneously whence the actual detonation was initiated. A concussive boom resonated throughout the vicinity, and the earth shook as flames rolled throughout the building's foundations. Concrete and plaster and brick and tile gave way, glass burst, and survivors met their fate. The terminal first imploded, caving in at the hub, while jagged fissures formed along the length of its central tracks. The glass dome of the main hobby burst in a mist of glass and metals, doubling up as the building around it collapsed inward. Not even three seconds followed when the whole terminal erupted in an explosion of flame and debris. The parking lot in its half-acre entirety was obliterated, rising up into the air in a concoction of inferno and shrapnel.

Nearly a quarter mile out was eradicated from the immense blast, which took with it everything in its path.

Everything.

All but the fleeing choppers soaring against the firmament, heading southeast.

And as the remnants of the terminal piled upon debris and bodies and ash, thick smoke billowing up from it all, Tyson couldn't help but clench his jaw and repeat.

His voice was filled with ire, filled with the rage of patriotic vendetta.

"They're gonna pay…all of 'em."