I like to think I'm a simple guy, and thus have simple plans for situations like the one we've found our favorite FLCL characters in. There are two steps, or Levels of Readiness, in BigCountry75's F.F.D.S. or FanFiction Defense System. 1. Find a helmet. (GI M1, German Stahlhelm, British Brodie, French Adrian, Soviet SSh-40; we're not picky) and 2. Put on the helmet. FanFiction...put on your helmet.
. . .
Never had I been so pumped with adrenaline and overcome with the heaves that I'd puked. Since Rita had tossed me out of bed, everything had been at one speed: holy shit, I'm blacking out, get me off this thing. None of it seemed real, it all one bad acid trip dream. It had felt real so far, the gravel road crunching on my sprint to Naota's, the Versa Max's recoil thudding against my shoulder…it sounded real, the rasping of my breath, the ringing in my ears, the clacking chatter of suppressed UMP-45's…the shotgun's unburned powder smelled real…the metallic and pungent flavor of blood particles drifting in the Nandaba's stairwell even tasted real…but the whole affair seemed a dream, brought on by an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of underdone potato. Only when Tommy pressed my rifle into my hands did I get the feeling of things becoming concrete again.
"How are you, any of you hit, hurt?" Tommy was checking the Nandabas. The trio were rattled, Shigekuni was red faced and firmly planted on a chair, but none were injured. I and the hit squad had both destroyed a good portion of the kitchen, living room, and staircase, and blown a hole in Naota's bedroom wall, but all of that could be bleached away and replaced. "Arms up, let's check, make sure you're not hit in the armpit. Turn…turn…turn…okay. Rig, what happened?"
"Four man squad, suppressed subguns, night vision…" I explained as I put on my carrier and battle belt. In all the hubbub, no one had the time to grab me a pair of pants. That's right. I was jumping neck deep into a fight with the State Patrol wearing boots, a wife beater, and my underoos. Rock out with your Glock out. 'Least I don't wear tighty-whiteys. "I think they planned on catching them sleeping. One per room, last to pull security, three little pops, mission over." Now the Nandabas all looked sick too, imagining never waking up or worse, waking up to a gun barrel in their face, and a bright flash.
"And why is that exactly?!" Ah, fuggin' Christ…not now! Naota had gotten over his initial shock. "Why were the cops at my house?! Why does everyone have body armor? Why is…?"
"Naota, Naota…listen, listen to me. First, give me this back, let go…there we go." I took my revolver back and holstered it. He had started talking with his hands and the GP100's muzzle was beginning to wander. "Nao', I have kept you safe, and thus kept my word, so far. I know this is fucked up, I know none of this seems fair or makes sense. You have a million questions, all warranted. But this is not the time. If you want to get answers, you're gonna have to survive 'till dawn, at minimum. And to do that, you have to stop getting hysterical like this. Take some deep breaths, calm down, and trust me a little longer. Can you do that?"
. . .
They looked like soldiers. Johnny, Josh, Mike, Shifty, Tommy, Rig…All wore deep green body armor vests and equipment belts, pistols on their hips, rifles across their backs. They were shifting shop equipment around, setting it up as barricades and fighting positions. But as Naota watched, he saw they moved with purpose. None were emotional, none were shouting, yelling, upset or fearful. They were as calm as could be. Motion wasn't rushed, it was measured. They had obviously practiced this scenario before, so while still nervous, it didn't impede their actions. This was a team that knew what they were about, and were going to do their utmost to keep him safe; and had done so thus far.
"Okay…whew…fuck me…okay, okay…" Calmed down, he straightened up. "Rig. If that's the case, then give me a rifle."
"That's the spirit!"
. . .
"Sir, I haven't heard anything from Kilo Squad." The shotgun seat rider of the first MRAP reported a No-Contact. "They're not responding."
"Keep trying." The commander thought and added: "They may have had to go dark."
"Roger that. Carson property in thirty seconds, ready up." The commander was nervous about not hearing from Kilo Squad, who were supposed to have set up overlook of the Carson's main house by now. Without any response, the main task force was going in blind to the current state of the area, and instead going on their satellite pictures. Expected contraband was bomb making materials, weapons, ammunition, and destructive devices, at minimum. All electronic devices such as cameras, computers, and phones, were to be seized as well. Suspects were known to be armed, and considered extremely dangerous. Presence of a weapon meant to be shot on sight. But it was only four in the morning, and they only expected a couple in their 60's, possibly one male in his 30's, and a teenaged nephew; not twelve wide awake, well-armed, and dug in defenders. The convoy turned off the pavement and onto the gravel drive. The task force commander called to HQ.
"Sergeant Kauffman, Sergeant Peterson of Task Force 1-1 reporting."
"Acknowledged Peterson. Go ahead."
"No contact from Kilo Squad, believe they have gone dark. No signs of disturbance or occupants, appears normal. But we have no idea of any activity before our arrival. Do I proceed?" Sergeant Peterson, and many other Troopers, knew of Cole's distaste for the Carsons. Sergeant Peterson waited patiently, feeling it should have been Cole leading the raid, not him.
"You are to proceed. I want the place cleaned out from top to bottom. No one gets out. NO ONE."
"Understood sir. Stand by for contact reports." Peterson clicked his radio channel over. "Alright gentlemen, this's it. Let's rock 'n' roll!"
. . .
"Mike, button us up." George ordered after he and Rita dashed across the lot from the house. Mike slammed the shop door shut, locked and barred it. He then lifted up a sliding panel on the wall, reached into the hole and pulled a lever. From the double wall and above the door, a slab of six steel plates, each an inch thick and welded together, spanning the six foot distance between the columns astride the door, dropped down with a teeth bouncing thud; pinning the door in place. Nothing was getting through that door. Wait, you're hung up on the double wall? Well, lucky you, so was Naota.
"Hang on…" He put his hand into the door lever opening, but turned it the opposite way. "The walls are filled with concrete!"
"So you bulletproofed the place eh?" Shigekuni, only his second time in it, looked around at the shop. "Now I know why the size in here doesn't fit quite right with the size on the outside."
"We didn't bullet proof it, great-grandad did when he built it." I explained. Everyone was manning their positions, and I mine: next to Naota. "The walls are eight inches of concrete, eight inches of lapping steel and ceramic plates, then another eight of concrete. The only thing getting through is a tank round."
"How high does the concrete go?" Kamon looked at the ceiling with uncertainty of his overhead cover.
"All the way to the ceiling, which is hardened too. Just not as much. Great-grandad designed it all himself, built it with only people who worked here. He didn't want some contractor knowing, or bragging out it at the bar…"
"Here they come!" Josh announced from his computers, Canti standing by. Shifty had gone around the day before double-checking all of our cameras and sensors, making sure they were all in place and still working properly. "Great fuckin' Moons of Jupiter Batman. One, two, three…three MRAP's, roof gunners. Two support SUV's, two cruisers, and a meat wagon. Easily fifty plus."
"What kind of MRAP's?" Shifty wanted to know. Only Josh and Canti could see the cameras feeds. Usually they only showed a deer or late night opossum, but the driveway shot had the full spread of the eight vehicle convoy.
"They're the…Cougar model, I think."
"Cougars?!" Shifty was beside himself.
"The vehicle model, not the lady; none of us are that lucky."
"And now you've ruined my day."
"Heh-heh." Someone behind me had giggled. It would be Kamon.
"Stow it Shifty." George checked the feed himself before redirecting everyone. "Focus up, man your posts." Shifty took up position at one of the firing ports installed in the wall. To use one, you slide up the sheet metal covering, reach in and swing up the lock, then press the button for a compressed air valve that will pop the outer wall portion up. A hydraulic ram keeps pressure down on it when closed, so it can only be opened from the inside. The only way in is pulling the entire wall down. The ports are beveled on our side, so from a one hand tall and six inch long slit, you have a wider angle of fire with a smaller target to the other guy. "Rig, you need to be at a port too."
"Stay behind the forklift, okay?" We'd stacked several steel plates in front of it, and the forklift's counterweight along would stop a fifty cal. "Do not move from this spot unless we tell you."
"We got it. Anything else?" Kamon asked.
"See the four doors?" I pointed at the bay doors, the front door, and the side door as Johnny blocked it with another steel barrier. "Shoot any, I mean anything, and anyone, that comes through them. Same as the house, not once, not twice, but until it stops moving or you run out of ammo; then beat them to death with your rifle."
"Can do." Shigekuni confirmed. Confident in their state and position, I left them at the forklift and looked over Josh's shoulder. The three MRAP's had pulled into the lot first, in a line between us and the house. The lighter vehicles then pulled between us and the MRAP's. They thought we were all inside the house, asleep. We'd certainly made it look that way. While I was at Naota's, everyone had done some redecorating. All of our trucks had been relocated behind Clifford: The Big Red Mobile Crane, in the garage half of the shop, and thus out of sight, mind, and gunfire. Two old beater pickups from the Boneyard had been substituted into the house's carport as sacrificial stand-ins. All but two exterior lights, the one over the shop's office door and one over the carport, were off. I was supposed to be at the wall, but couldn't stop watching with Josh and Canti events outside unfolding in a combination of FLIR and green-screen night vision.
I tried to count as they piled out of the MRAP's. Twelve, twenty, thirty, forty-two…Josh's guess of fifty plus was dead on. Most covered the house teams from behind their vehicles, and some a four man squad that split off to march right up to the shop's office door. An unfortunate twelve man team split into two squads, six to the carport and six around back to my, MY I tell you, basement door. Look, I'm trying to be 'objective' and 'matter of fact', but y'all know that ain't me, and…dude! It's my friggin' basement they were about to smash up; I live down there goddammit! They didn't know how badly it was going to go, I'm sure it sounded like a good plan at the time. As they were getting into position, George did something I thought at first, rather odd.
"Josh, give me the wireless microphone!" He ordered, watching through his firing port. "Hurry, before they count off!" Confused but following his orders, Josh popped out the USB cable for the desktop mic, plugged in the remote receiver and its audio jack, and tossed George the handheld unit.
"You're live in…three…" He counted down as he started up the loudspeakers; installed in several recesses under the shop's roof overhang. "…Two…One…"
. . .
"Alpha Squad in position. Ready to breach."
"Bravo Squad in position. Ready to breach."
"Juno Squad in position. Ready to breach."
"India Squad confirms." Sergeant Peterson was observing from the armored pillbox of his MRAP. "Breach and clear on my mark. Three…two…"
"Officers of the Pennsylvania State Highway Patrol, cease and desist! I say again, cease and desist!" An amplified voice commanded. A mild panic crept in despite their numbers. The element of surprise was gone and their enemy knew exactly who they were. They also could not pinpoint the voice's location or origin, the sounds were bouncing between the metal shop and house too much to decipher.
"George Carson? Is that you?" Sergeant Peterson used the loudspeaker mounted atop his MRAP, usually for crowd control, to reply. "We have a warrant for your arrest and to search the premises. If you come out with your hands up, this will go much easier for everyone."
"I'm terribly sorry, but I can't do that. I know you're here to kill me and seize everything not nailed down."
'Oh, this's not good.' Peterson's gut began to sink. 'And where the fuck is Kilo Squad?!' This had all the potential of another Ruby Ridge. He wanted this over with five minutes ago.
"Mister Carson, we are not here to negotiate. If you do not come out with your hands up, we are going to drag you out. We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way. It's your choice."
"No Officer, it is your choice. What you're doing is wrong, and ALL of you know it."
'This's just wonderful. The asshat's gonna give a moral lecture before we smoke him.' But George had yet to make his offer.
"But if you and your troopers lay down your arms and retreat now, that'll be the end of it. No one else has to get hurt, no more Human blood needs to be wastefully spilled."
"Mister Carson, what do you mean? Are you…?"
"Have you heard from Kilo Squad lately?" Every trooper, all fifty eight of them, heard that and felt their stomachs tighten and balls recede just a hair. If Kilo Squad, assigned to wet work, was down, why hadn't they called for help and how had they been taken out? Was this a setup? How many people really were on the premises, were there hidden cameras…traps?
"Sergeant Kauffman at Command, this is Sergeant Peterson with Task Force 1-1, come in." Peterson urgently called, every second meaning this operation was going from silent and deadly, to bad, to worse, to clusterfuck.
"Sergeant Kauffman. Go ahead Peterson."
"Sergeant, George Carson either knew we were coming, or has a lightning response time. He's on some loudspeaker and claiming to have taken out Kilo Squad. We have no visuals on anyone, but he has us under observation, and I don't know from how or where. How do we proceed?"
. . .
"Josh, he's taking too long. Kill the radios." Josh leaned over and flipped an unmarked breaker on the panel. Up on a shelf at the ceiling, hidden in the rafters, a radio jammer the size of a small suitcase came online. All radios in a four hundred yard wide circle now only played static.
. . .
"Do I have your undivided attention now, Officers?" The loudspeakers crackled again. Sergeant Peterson tried every channel and only heard static. This wasn't happening. Communications were how his Task Force operated. Without them, it was shouted word only and no link back to command for updates and calling for backup.
"This, this is your last chance!" He shouted for sake of saying something.
"It is your last chance Officer. I didn't want any of this. I wanted to retire to Florida, scuba dive and spear fish, get hammered at ten in the morning and make love to my wife on the beach. I'm sure all you want is something simpler, and admirable. You want safety and security for your wife, your kids, and that they will have a future that doesn't end in a mass grave. But Medical Mechanica isn't what you think it is, The Red Star isn't a Heaven, it's a Hell, and The Man in Black is a forked tongue in a cheap suit. Please, I'm begging you. For your own lives, or if those don't matter to you anymore, your families…please disperse. If not, I will defend myself….Well everyone, I tried, I don't, oh shit." George was caught with a hot mic before turning it off.
"There's more than one of them!" Peterson screamed out his window. "BREACH! BREACH NOW DAMN IT!"
All three squads, Alpha, Bravo and Juno, breached at the same time. Alpha was forced between two ramshackle pickup trucks in the carport. Both were parked with their passenger doors inches from the wall and almost touching the house with their bumpers. This forced Alpha into a single file line right up to the door. As the battering ram knocked the door in, a magnetic circuit opened. Instead of activating an alarm or dialing out 911, it released a charged capacitor. The voltage surged up a wire strung inside the ceiling of the carport and into a row of Tovex mining explosives. Above the row of Tovex charges had been laid a heavy steel L-angle and then bags of sand piled over that to direct the explosive force downwards into the carport. Underneath the Tovex was a bed of nails, nuts, bolts, washers, screws and ball bearings.
One moment, the carport was there, then a flash and window shattering blast, and it was gone. Under the elevated back porch, a similar explosion, with identical shrapnel and planted Tovex, was touched off when the sliding glass door was shattered. The back porch vanished in a flurry of splinters, hardware, and fire. The awning over the shop's office door had been rigged as well, blowing the awning to slivers and throwing the four officers back across the lot. As the triple explosions rolled over the hills, Sergeant Peterson's ears stopped ringing long enough to hear six small clanks behind him. He turned and saw six narrow slits had opened up on the sheet metal plated wall of the shop. It took him a split second to do the math.
"Behind us, behind us! They're in the shop!"
. . .
"Weapons free!" George gave the go-ahead and we lit into their flank. In the first volley we dropped, I believe, seven or eight, I'll go with eight. I can't say if I hit any or not, it's rather hard to see through a firing port even on a bright afternoon, and it's maddeningly hard to hit a moving, bobbing, weaving, schuckin' and jivin' target; especially when the target very much does not want to get hit. If the explosives were loud, then we rendered ourselves 'Army career of twenty years in field artillery' levels of deaf by firing six rifles in the enclosed box of the shop. The sound had nowhere to go except straight up our ears. Mike was the worst offender. He had our only machinegun, an RPK. He was at the slit next to the door, built a hair wider for better shots. He also had a table next to him covered in 75-round drums. While most of us were using three or four round bursts, or semi auto for accuracy's sake like me, he could put the barrel to the rest and hold down the trigger. Ask any combat veteran what one of the worst parts of war is, and a common response you'll get is 'the noise.' We couldn't hear ourselves think.
The State Troopers recovered to the turnabout rather well. The SUV's and Paddy Wagon we of course shredded, but the MRAP's provided easy cover for them to regroup. The M240 trio got warmed up and returned fire, forcing some of us to spring aside from our port and drop it closed. I think what contributed most to my Pucker Factor, was leaning with my back to the wall, and listening to the rounds hitting it behind me; and knowing if the wall wasn't there, I would have been ballistically reduced to a meat slushie.
"Smoke, they're using smoke!" Johnny was still on his port and black fumes came roiling in. The one flaw great-grandad had not designed out was that the shop was not airtight. If the cops outside had enough patience, and a tank of smoke, tear gas, and CS, they could gas us out. Hell, build a big enough fire upwind and they could smoke us out; or at least render us flavored like Christmas hams. Sure, we had gas masks in the storeroom, but seeing how no one had bothered to grab me any PANTS, guess what else we didn't have on hand when they followed up the smoke with CS and tear gas? Here's hint. CS smells like a mix of burning bleach and yellowed, sweat stained and salt crusted gym socks left in a gym bag forgotten in the back of your closet, from last year's flag football game in the rain. Shit's nasty.
"They're moving to the front door." Josh still manned the cameras, switching to FLIR as the smoke obscured his night vision. "Twelve up front, six to the side. I think they'll try to breach both at the same time."
"Are they on the X?" Shifty asked, firing a short burst to let everyone outside know we were still in business.
"No, I would've done it already if they were!"
"Are they at least close?"
"Kinda-sorta, we'd only get for sure one SUV; the rest is a variable."
"Ready it all the same." George had been listening in. He then redirected us. "Shifty, Mike, cover the side door; stay back from in case of shaped charges. Johnny, Tommy, stay here, Rita, take up…uh, here, behind the press." I gotta say, it was a beautiful sight to see George finally come into his own, making calls and decisions on the fly. I suspect he had it all along, but needed a bit of hammering ot bring out. "And Rig, take Naota downstairs and send him out. If they want in here, they eventually will be. So it's best to move him while there's time."
"You got it. Naota, on your feet." I lead him over to the second bay and the shop's main circuit breaker. Most of the switches are not marked or have labels so old and peeling they're useless. I started flipping switches. "Let's see. One left, yes. One right, yes. Two right, yes, yes. Two left, yes, yes…" And so on, and so on. "Seven right, yes. Six left, yes! Stand back!"
"Back from what? Oh!" The concrete slab just aside our feet lowered and dropped into a ramp leading down into the basement.
. . .
The floor had fallen away, now a ramp down to darkness replaced it. Naota looked across the shop at his Dad and Grandpa. Both gave acknowledging nods before returning to reinforcing their position. Rig had already started down the ramp, expecting him to follow. Between staying in a shop filling with smoke, gas, and rifle fire, or the subterranean, Naota followed.
"What is this, how have I never seen it?" He asked as Rig flicked on a light. He found himself face to double eye rows with the Scorpion Bot, to its side the Industrial. With a little light, he saw the room was actually large but filled with the two robots on the right wall. The back wall was floor to ceiling of military crates and ammunition cans; tens of thousands of rounds, explosives, what looked like grenades, even what could have read as mortar shells if the lettering wasn't so worn. The left wall shelved more crates, these general supplies and equipment, a row of large lockers, and a steel door that looked more like the face of a bank vault. Rig had some of the crates open and was rifling through them.
"Here's some boots and socks, put 'em on." He tossed a surplus pair of Vietnam era black jungle boots: size ten. "You'll need one of these, two of these…eight of these, prob'bly one of these, make it two…"
"Rig, Rig…what's going on?" Naota put on the socks and boots, leaning against the wall for support. "What is all this? Are you guys some kind of agency, like the I.I.B. or something?"
"The I.I.B.? They wish. Here's your stuff, put it on." Rig held out a bundle of gear in one hand, their rifles in the other.
"Put on what, n…no. No, I'm not, not until you explain what all this is! There are people out there trying to kill me, and I have a right to know why!"
"Rig, hurry up down there!" Tommy yelled.
"Nao', I've already told you this ain't the time nor place. In case you've missed the past hour, they're trying to kill ME too! And if you keep up with the questions, they're gonna succeed. Now put this stuff on, or Holy Mother of Christ, I will dress you, then hustle your ass down the tunnel before I throw you down it!...MOVE!"
"I wish none've this ever happened…why couldn't things just be fucking ordinary? Normal for a damn change…" Naota swore as he put on a belt and suspenders, but with no pistol, then plate carrier; this one with rifle plates. "Nothing exciting, no robots, no aliens…just me still at home…"
"I'm trying to help you, but yah've got to focus!" Rig jarred him back. "Look, I promise you, on my father's grave, I will explain everything. But I can't now, there isn't time. Those doors aren't going to hold and when they go down, you need to be long gone. Remember everything I've taught you and you should be alright. I'll see you in twelve hours, I hope."
"But…"
"NO! No buts! Move, run, ride! Git gone Naota Nandaba, save your ass!" Rig threw open the tunnel door and shoved him in. "People are trying to kill you, and I'm trying to help you! Is that not reason enough?!"
"Easy for you to say!" There was a muffled BOOM…and some dust shook loose from the ceiling. A long burst of several rifles followed. "So, follow the tunnel, follow the instructions, twelve hours?"
"Sounds right. See you on the other side. Do not surrender that guitar under penalty of death, dash it to a thousand pieces before you do. And…" Rig handed him an AK-47, pressing it into his hands. "If you know you're gonna go out, make sure it's on a pile of hot brass. Good luck."
. . .
"Corporal! The charges were ineffective!"
"What?! It's just a cheap steel door." Corporal Luis was now in charge. Sergeant Peterson had taken a bullet to the brain; repainting the inside of his MRAP's cabin. Luis had warned him to keep his window closed. But since their radios weren't working, and smoke was blanketing much of the area, hand signals or shouting were their only options. And now, whoever were in the shop, had started using their loudspeakers to blast music, further hindering communications. Now a runner had to be sent back and forth to the forward breaching teams; as the defenders kept up with intermittent rifle fire.
"And it went down no problem, but there's a huge steel plate behind each one. Unless we've got a torch, some thermite, or enough C4 to level the building, we're not getting in."
"There is one thing we could try." Corporal Luis thought of the crate in the locker of the second MRAP.
"Sir?! Sir, I can't hear you!" The trooper climbed up to the cab.
"What?!"
"You'll have to yell Sir, I can't hear you over this!"
"Damn music!" Corporal Luis swore, trying to block it out.
*It's time to play The Game!
Time to PLAY THE GAAMMMEEE! M-Whuahaha!
AH! Ah-ha-ha-ha!
It's all about The Game, and how you play it!
All about Control, and if you can take it!
All about your Debt, and if you can pay it!
It's all about PAIN, and who's gonna make it!
I AM The Game, you don' wanna play me!
I AM Control, no way you can chain me!
I AM Heavy Debt, no way you can pay me!
I am The Pain, and I know you can't tame me!
"What is it sir?"
"We've got an AT4 in the second truck; and only one. Pull the teams back from both doors. We'll have to go through just the front." The runner took off and disappeared back into the smoke. From behind the MRAP's and shot up cars, a few more smoke and gas grenades were thrown. They were running low on these, they'd have to hurry and make this breach quick.
"Who's trained on the AT4?" Sergeant Peterson would have known, but he was leaking on the dashboard. "Dom', who's trained on the AT4?"
"Not sure, Corporal!" Trooper Dominck was trying to make himself small behind one of the MRAP's tires. "Try Roberts, I think."
"Roberts?! Roberts?!"
"Sir! Roberts…" Corporal Luis didn't hear the reply.
"What?!"
"Roberts is…" Someone pointed at a body lying face down in a pool of blood, its arm twisted too far in its socket so the palm faced upward. The name stripe under the larger POLICE stripe on his back read: ROBERTS.
"Anyone else?" Corporal Luis had dismounted the MRAP, walking from trooper to trooper, asking for anyone who knew how to use the AT4. He flattened as a burst rang out from the building. There was a loud SQUEENCH at the last round, followed by a CR-nch…Thud. He looked back to see Dominick dead in the dirt, his head nearly separated from his shoulders; neck nearly shot away. Luis took it upon himself to put the AT4 into play, before they were whittled away to nothing.
"Thank Christ, there's a manual." He had looked down to see a green tube and despaired. He carried it over to the SUV in front of the door, knelt with the AT4 propped on the SUV's door, and read:
1. Remove transport safety pin.
2. Unsnap shoulder stop.
3. Open front and rear sights.
4. Unfold cocking lever with right hand.
4A. Place thumb under lever, push forward.
4B. Rotate downward and to the right.
4C. Slide backwards.
5. Hold down safety lever with index and middle fingers.
6. Use right thumb to fire.
"Well, that doesn't seem too hard." Corporal Luis readied to fire.
"Branman, Jones!" The squad leaders joined him, seeing the AT4 gave them a slight boost. They knew what Luis had in mind.
"Both our squads, front door?"
"Both front door. Delta and Fox will assault, Golf is follow-up. Hotel stays here with me and India to provide cover. I'll fire, we'll pop what smoke and gas we've got left, and you'll flash and stun before entering. Once you're in, waste everything." The Delta and Fox leaders looked at the bullet-riddled SUV, their pockmarked MRAP's with windows spiderwebbed, and the now twenty seven bodies spread around the house and lot, not including the disappeared Kilo Squad, and agreed with Luis's plan. Once everyone was in position and flashed Thumbs Up, Corporal Luis counted down.
"Three, two, ONE!" CL-Ick. TH-WHOOOOMMM! The AT4's rocket lit off, its backblast peeling the paint off the MRAP behind it. The warhead detonated against the steel barricade, buckling it inwards with enough force to rip it free of its channel and toss it backwards against the opposite wall. A hail of smoke, CS and tear gas followed; the last they had.
"Move up, move up!" Branman lead Delta to the door, all firing at the wall ports to keep the defenders back. Jones and Fox Squad followed right behind them. Almost to the door, one of the men in Delta threw his stun grenade, bouncing it perfectly off the door frame and into the shop. As it disappeared inside, the trooper found himself lifted off the ground, the shop's walls quickly coming to meet him at face shattering speed. His eardrums were so rapidly ruptured, he didn't even register and explosion had taken place. Unknowingly, Delta and Fox had walked across 'The X', a planted circle and cross of remotely detonated Tovex explosives. Josh, with a push of a button, had sent a signal to the buried Daisy Chain, and sent both squads flying. He'd also rolled the SUV Corporal Luis was using for cover. It slammed into the front end of one and back end of another MRAP, crushing Corporal Luis between them. Now there was a fifty foot wide by three foot deep crater where ten men had been standing a second ago; and the dust, rocks, and body parts, were still falling.
"Oh holy fuck! Christ, no!" One trooper yelled as he fired back in anger.
"Cease fire dammit!" Ammunition was running low. "How many are left?"
"Ten, eleven, fifteen…twenty…one. Twenty one of us sir!"
"Twenty one, that's it?! Holy shit. What happened to Luis?"
"He fuckin' ate it man!"
"Well, who's in charge now?"
No one had an answer.
. . .
Naota only heard the rocket as a muffled thump. The tunnel was rough cut, but a fairly smooth floor, sloping slightly down, and it was unlit. Rig had thoughtfully included a Fulton flashlight in the equipment he'd given him. He kept the red filter on to preserve what little night vision he'd accumulated in the dark. Consulting a mental map, it seemed the tunnel was taking him under the runway and out to the mountainside, probably to an overlook of the valley and Yamaha Trail below. For several minutes nothing had yielded to the flashlight's beam except more darkness, but he knew he would soon run out of mountain.
Sure enough, he came to a door, secured into the rock with bolts as thick as his arm. Next to it, leaning against the wall, waited an older model Yamaha YZ250, spray painted green, brown and black camouflage. Sitting on the seat was a handheld GPS, a clip to secure it to the handlebars, and a set of instructions.
"If you're reading this…" Naota went down the list. "That means the shit has hit the fan. Oh, Rig wrote this. But fear not, all is not yet a fully-fledged goat-fuck. Yep, Rig was here. Use these coordinates, then switch the GPS to its beacon finder function. Stay off the roads as much as possible, paved, dirt, gravel, or otherwise. Avoid a fight at all costs. If it cannot be avoided, fight like your life depends on winning, because it does. Your tank of gas will get you thirty miles, forty if you're careful, remember that. Good luck."
The door swung outwards, showing the tunnel's end was under the root system of several massive bushes and trees, and the door itself was well blended to the hill. It was also almost a sheer drop, with only a foot wide gouge into the hill for a bike path down. Now hearing bursts of gunfire behind him, he wavered on running. It wasn't right of him to leave. Another long burst of gunfire rang out and he recognized the pattern as an AK. He wanted to turn back, but what good would he do? He'd never been in a gunfight, and reasoned he'd only be getting in the way. As morbid as it sounded, it would be a travesty if all of them were killed. At least someone had to survive; and it seemed he'd been volun-told to be the designated survivor. So with a heavy heart, he first shut the door. Then he secured the Rickenbacker and his newly acquired AK-47 across his back, powered up and strapped in the GPS, and started the bike down the hill.
The GPS was his only light as it took him up the Yamaha Trail, then across Moshannon Creek and past the small time operation of Rushtown Mining. He dashed across Tyrone Pike, paralleling Cold Stream north, then actually dropping onto its banks as the woods became too dense. The GPS commanded a right turn, taking him across a wide field, then down into the sunken Port Matilda Highway, then up and across another field and back into the woods. Now he was following Black Bear Run, passing underneath Black Moshannon Road with a roar as his exhaust echoed off the storm drain bridge.
He tooled along as fast as he dared, rarely going over twenty five. But in the morning twilight it felt like a million miles an hour as trees, rocks, sweepers and logs leapt out at him. Naota wished most at that moment for a helmet as branches took swipes at his face. It was a matter of time before he put an eye out. Even a pair of goggles would have been an improvement. Now another right turn. Straight up the ridge and down the other side onto Hannah-Furnace, then back into the woods. He slowed to scale back the GPS's route and decided to take Six Mile Run north, the follow Casanova Road for a while before dashing himself in the face with yet another branch.
'There'll be no one out here anyway, not this early…oh fucking HELL!' At the intersection of Six Mile Run and Casanova Road, lay in wait a roadblock of three Sheriff's cars. He didn't stop to say hello or ask for directions, and they didn't bother with yelling halt or stop. A buzzing 5.56mm hornet sailed past his ear, then simultaneously a second struck him squarely on the back while a buckshot load blew out his back tire.
It wasn't as much the pain, but the suddenness and force of the round slamming him onto the handle bars, that was worse. The vest, and rifle plates in it, Rig had given him, did their job of saving his life; at least momentarily anyway. The real pain started when he lost control of the bike and slipped into the ditch. In revenge, the bike tried to drown him, one of the pegs latching onto his boot before he could yank free. With just enough time to spare, he wrenched the GPS off the handlebars and clenched its strap between his teeth. Sputtering, wheezing and coughing up water, he clawed up the hill, ripping off two fingernails in the frantic climb.
The deputies lazily pulled up in one of their cruisers, shining their spotlight on the ditch, then panning around the woods before back on the ditch. They piled out, pointing down at the sunken dirt bike, then peered around for a rider. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but knew he couldn't stay where he was. The GPS said it was another two miles (in a straight line) to just the waypoint, no telling how far it would be to the beacon, and he wasn't going to get there on foot.
'Got to find a ride…got to find a way to move faster than a walk…' He doubled back to the roadblock, watching it from the bushes. Two vehicles were in front of him, while the third was to his right, checking on the ditch. One vehicle was just across the road and by itself, the third was across the intersection entirely and guarded by two deputies; who were looking the opposite way down Casanova Road. He…he could, in theory…sneak across the road, and since the driver door was opposite the deputies still there, get into the car closest to him and, still in theory mind you, start it. In a universe of infinite possibilities, there was one he actually pulled this off; maybe this was it?
'Or you could wander around in the woods for a few days, get eaten by the bears, or shot…again. It's an old Crown Vic', couldn't be too hard to hotwire.' It was hard to breathe. He couldn't seem to get enough air, and his breath came in rattling wheezes. He couldn't tell if he'd been wounded or not, but feared he had been, based on the pain spreading across his back. As wet as he was, he could have been bleeding to death and never known the difference. And the sun was threatening to start rising any moment.
"Fuck it."
He stole back down the hill and crept doubled over across the road. Making it to the driver's door, he congratulated himself on not giving himself away by breathing. The door was unlocked, but the keys were gone. He bit his knuckle to stop from swearing. A quick glance in the mirror showed the other two deputies were still unaware. The others down the road were now either in the woods, following his claw marks, or trying to fish the dirt bike out of the ditch.
He lost another fingernail getting the plastic covering off the steering column, but it was worth it. With no tools handy, he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, the wires loose from their terminals. Now he had to actually sit down on the seat, so he unslung his guitar and rifle, setting the guitar on the passenger seat and rifle against the console, so he could fit. Looking down, it was only then did he see the multi-tool pouch Rig had attached to his vest.
'Of fuckin' course…only after I lose three nails…' He grumbled, stripping off the wires. 'I'm still gonna get shocked though…oh this's gonna hurt. Maybe my shirt'll help.' He pulled down the edges of his shirt and wrapped his fingers.
"Ow-h-HOW. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" If the burning in his fingers and metal tang on his tongue were any indicators, the Crown Vic was putting up a fight. But the lights were on, the patrol radio popped and fizzed static, and even one of the two deputies had walked off into the woods to take a leak. He tapped the power supply wires and the car started right up. He bent the wires back over, and kept his legs apart to avoid getting shocked again, and pulled the door closed. That got some attention.
"Hey, what…what the hell?" One of the deputies had heard him. "Hey, hey…hey! Stop, stop right now! Hands out the window!" Naota dropped the lever down to drive and only after stomping on the gas, did he remember the steering lock was engaged. The Crown Vic wasn't done with him yet.
"Get out of the vehicle, sir stop the…" One of them was running alongside, trying for the door handle. Naota tapped the gas just enough to keep moving, trying to jam the knife of the multi-tool between the wheel and column to open the lock. Almost got it…almost… "Stop the vehicle, stop…GUN!" The deputy had spotted the AK next to his right knee, and still running, opened fire. Two hit the rear door and stopped in the divider wall. Another passed through the door, under his knees and into the floorboards. A fourth blew a hole in the window next to his ear, slicing it with broken glass, then spiderwebbed a pie plate sized section of the windshield.
"C'mon, stupid piece of shit, move damn it!" Naota fought the lock, rapidly running out of road. He was headed for a curve and if he couldn't turn, was headed off the edge. More shots came his way, hitting the trunk, back windshield, what sounded like the row of lights on the roof, evidenced by the sprinkle of colored glass raining on the hood. Finally there was a sharp crack and the steering wheel freed up. Now he put the pedal to the floor, skidding around the corner and using a tree to, ahem, 'correct', his course. With incoming fire slackening off, he plunked the GPS on the dash. Despite its dunk in the ditch, it still pointed east/north east. He made it around Devil's Elbow with little trouble, then turned left onto Huckleberry Road. Next to him, the radio chirped as the deputies were reporting a stolen police vehicle and coming after him, but already had a good head start.
The GPS then demanded a hard left onto what looked like an out of service access road. A mile or so up it, the radio traffic sounded like the deputies had missed the access road and were still headed on down Casanova. Now the GPS stopped. He promptly switched to Beacon Mode, hearing the GPS pinging softly. Off the road, onto a trail, with a winding path cut between the trees with a chainsaw; invisible if you weren't looking for it. This path was cut with a dirt bike in mind and he was forced to stop. Two hundred yards further at the top of the hill was a cleft in a house sized mound of boulders, and the GPS was pinging like mad. Slipping inside he found a hidden cave stocked with crates and boxes. There were two holes in the roof, one natural and one drilled. The natural hole was in the middle of the ceiling and blackened with campfire smoke. The drilled one had a small solar panel outside of it, then a cable down to a deep cycle battery, connected them to a beacon on top of a crate. He shut off both the GPS and beacon, then spied the bed in the corner. He curled up on the bare, mouse-eaten mattress with the bass next to his head and AK clenched to his chest, and exhausted, fell asleep.
. . .
Being unable to hear is terrifying, especially because you don't know if your sound system will come back or not. For similar, but even more visceral reasons, not being able to see, that, dear reader, is a nightmare. What could only have been some kind of damn bazooka or rocket hit the front door and blew it clear across the shop, smashing a lathe and knocking over three year's salary worth of drill presses. The flash that went with it was dazzling I must say, then a stun grenade followed, just as I was of course looking at where the door had been. The last picture I had before it went off was George standing opposite me of the grenade, and it looked only an arm's length from him and level with his head…then, BOOM. Both it and the Tovex we'd buried in the lot outside naught a few days ago, went off. All I could see now were spots, those purple dots you get from looking at the sun for longer than a fleeting glance. Stripped of vision, I said 'to hell with it, might's well take a break' and sat down right there.
Sound came back first. Smell was still there all along, with taste and touch, as I could definitely sense the CS and Tear gas rolling in. But sound came back with Mike firing from his port, Rita yelling for Kamon to help her move George so she could check his head, and then Shifty asking if I was okay. Getting two of your senses knocked silly can really reset your thinking, making it remarkably clear if you're lucky. For all of three, four seconds, my mind was the emptiest it'd been in memory. So quiet…tranquil…Buddha sitting with me on the floor, in the dust, metal shavings and spent bullet casings, saying I had almost achieved Enlightenment. Then Canti one-handed me to standing and as the blood rushed back in, real life came roaring back.
"How is he?" Tommy leaned over the shears where Rita and Shigekuni were working on George.
"Not good. Concussion at least, weak pulse…one eardrum, right side, is blown…"
"Hey Rig, welcome back!" Shifty steadied me, looking for obvious wounds. "Have a nice nap?"
"Five more minutes, eh Shifty?"
"C'mon, c'mon, back to work." He pulled my rifle back to my front as the sling was trying to strangle me. Things cleared up more so after that. "Yo, Tommy!"
"Yeah?!"
"What's the word?"
"The word is: FUCK!" And for some stupid reason, everyone found this hilarious.
"Couldn't have said it better. What now?"
"Let me think…" Tommy just realized, with George down, he was in charge. I wanted to run over and check on George myself, but Shifty steered me towards something more productive, standing me in front of a gun port. "Well, we can't stay here, ducking out the back isn't really an option either since we'd be on foot and rounded up in no time. We've got to bust out. Shifty, Johnny?" He asked the senior enlisted to opine.
"Agreed."
"Seconded."
"Got it. Okay…okay…" Tommy rolled his options, then cast his gaze down into the storeroom. Laying eyes on the Industrial, his sudden smile lifted everyone's spirits. "Here's what's up. Mike, front door. Rig, side door. Mike, Johnny, Shifty, start getting into your Ned Kelly's. Kamon, Shigekuni, if you're willing, right up here at the wall. Josh…" Tommy pointed down the ramp at the Industrial. "How soon can you get that thing running?"
. . .
There was nary an unbitten set of nails in the State Patrol's Mobile Command Center. Reports that were coming in, painted a scene of disintegrating plans and growing chaos. There were too many targets to eliminate at once, but a four in the morning time was thought to be sufficient for catching all off guard and asleep. And like all well laid Battle Plans, it did not survive first contact with the enemy.
Nine out of ten houses were empty when the Task Forces arrived. Conditions of the houses showed most had been recently vacated; in one case a mug of coffee on the kitchen counter was still steaming hot. The tenth house out of the ten, were the worst cases. At least, that they were still in contact with, five Task Forces were pinned down and taking heavy casualties at or near targeted residences. How many more had been totally wiped out was a frightening unknown. Reinforcements were also reporting random sniper fire, their vehicles being hit by chance potshots, and hasty ambushes. A team of vehicles would approach a curve, tunnel, or bottleneck, and a group from behind rocks, trees, walls, or even in the ditch, would unleash a barrage of fire and vanish into the woods before a counter attack could be mounted. Cole was doing his utmost to stem the bleeding, but this was unprecedented. The police were used to having every advantage: the best firepower, equipment, armor, gadgets, numbers, and the ability to completely surround and lockdown any area; turning any encounter into a siege they controlled. When these advantages were rendered null and void, and the playing field yanked level instead of heavily tilted in their favor, the cops were finding they weren't half the bona-fide juggernauts they thought they were. And the stress of this new paradigm was causing some…friction, in the ranks.
"Sergeant Kauffman, I still have not received any communications from Task Force 1-1." One of the radio monitors looked deathly tired in the 'wired for red' lighting.
"Keep trying. They may have gone to a different frequency." Cole ordered, then added. "Get a relief force put together in case 1-1 needs reinforced."
"Sergeant! Task Force 2-3 is down." Another monitor reported, turning his volumn down to temporarily block out the yelling on the other end. "They were en route to 3-3, and are taking sniper fire from the buildings and Orthodox Church in Hawk Run."
"Have them pull back behind the river, uh…" Cole consulted the map screen on the wall. "Behind Emigh Run to the Morrisdale-Powell intersection, and wait for retasking."
"Task Force 4-4 has secured their target, but sustained casualties, are attempting to return to rally point."
"How bad are the casualties?"
"Fifty percent." TF 4-4 was down to ten officers. Not good. "Six KIA, three seriously injured, one walking wounded. Currently taking fire at Six Mile Road and Drane Highway."
"Have 4-4 rerout immediately to Osceola Mills P.D., via Drane. Strong will bitch and moan, but wounded take priority." As so it had been going for an hour and a half.
"Come in 3-2! 3-2!" One monitor was beginning to yell into his mic, causing the rest of the center to stop and listen. "What is your condition, over?"
"Condition…*pssshhhhtttt*...Condition Fucked! We're pinned down in Sandy Ridge Exca…*beeple-beeple-beep*…"
"Sandy Ridge Excavations? 3-2, that is…one, no, two clicks south of your objective. Are you…?"
"No shit Sherlock! Left, left, to your damn LEFT! They've got full-autos, body armor, even a goddamn Barrett fifty-cal! We're getting ripped to pieces down here, send someone to…*ppssshhhhttt*…*scrttchh*…*sccrrttcchh*…"
"Sunova bitch!" The monitor threw his headphones against the wall. "What the FUCK is going on?!"
"How many people did we try to pick up? Shit, sounds like there's a goddamn army out there."
"How the hell did so many targets get away before we even got there?" The panic was spreading, and paranoia exploded along with it. "It's like they knew we were coming!"
"Someone must've talked!"
"Whoa, hey! Let's not…"
"Fuck you, what else makes sense? None of the targets are home at four in the morning on a Saturday, and the ones that ARE home, are better armed and dug in than Burt Gummer!"
"What're you tryin' to say? C'mon, out with it!"
"Shit, I don't know…I mean, well…"
"I'll say what everyone is thinking."
"Sergeant Kauffman, sir?" Cole drew himself to full height, and saw his reflection on one of the wall's display screens. He looked resplendent in his uniform with its newly sewn stripes.
"Everyone here is thinking it, everyone here knows it. We have been set up to fail. As you know well, I was the first to be contacted by The Man. Not the mayors, not the Sheriff, not Captain Chojnacki. Me. And it was through me that all events, until the morning, have been coordinated with The Man. But now that Chojnacki and the lieutenants have been holding private audiences with The Man, now that HE is planning operations, we have disaster. And how convenient it must be, for him to have promoted a Patrolman straight to Sergeant, and handed him a two county wide, five hundred suspect large manhunt on the same hour of this promotion. My Brother Officers. This is a blatant power grab by Chojnacki and his lieutenants, to remove me from good standing with The Man, and install himself in my place of favor. But worst of all, the most despicable factor of all, is he is willing to let good officers die, and all of you be dragged down with me."
Except for garbled radio chatter, the command center was silent. No one could speak up in protest of Cole's words. They were all in an impressionable state, and what he said made sense. Chojnacki was known as a bureaucrat, a liaison to city halls where he rubbed elbows with politicians and curried political, personal favor. It was not inconceivable that the realpolitik and backstabbing ways may have leeched into Chojnacki's mind. And all events of the past hour and a half had every look, feel and sound of a setup; at the very least a massive information leak on top of their emails being stolen. While everyone in the center now agreed with Cole, they didn't know what to do next. All it took was a tepid soul.
"S-so…if you're right, then what do we do?"
"First, stop the bleeding. Recall all Task Forces, put out a full Retreat Order. Second, stabilization. Task Forces will be reorganized, and we here will return to the station. Third, prevent further injury. Chojnacki and his lieutenants must step down and be taken into custody, or removed. Understood?"
"Understood, Sergeant Kauffman!"
. . .
The N.O. flow in and around him, bearing the marks of War, had turned to a torrent. Ethereal blue of N.O.'s signature was running purple as blood mixed in. Knowing Men in Black and their ilk would be drawn as moths to this bonfire, Atomsk left the shelter of the mine. A sliver of sun was growing on the horizon, but it was still plenty dark for him. Restored to full health, he composed himself into his finest Phoenix form, spread his wings and departed in a mighty whirlwind.
There was no cause to immediately leave the planet, especially if the N.O. was being this disrupted. Atomsk preferred to watch events develop from a distance and avoid getting caught up in the chaos. So he headed west, looking for somewhere even more downstream and out of the way. As he soared, an old feather fell loose and tumbled back to Earth. The wind batted it around, and it finally settled not in King Coal, but miles away at the very bottom of Voyze's Quarry; the deepest bore of 1,000 feet down.
. . .
Haruko did not see Atomsk's departure. She was preoccupied with avoiding the eyes of every trigger happy cop in the county. Her bracelet and its chain link nearly took her hand off when Atomsk did leave, giving her a delightful jolt. He was in the area, and close, so very, very close. There were two signals she could choose from. The one at King Coal was the strongest, so she turned back. Atomsk wasn't getting away this time. Not when he had so much to answer for, or when she was this close.
. . .
"Keee-hrist! This thing's heavy!"
"If you built it right, it'll save your life."
"Provided my spine doesn't snap under the weight…sure."
"Alright Mister Nandaba and…Mister Nandaba, would you be willing to lend us a hand?"
"Where do you need us?" Shigekuni hadn't looked this amped up his entire time in Pennsylvania. "I won't be much for running, but haven't forgot how to aim a rifle."
"You and Kamon stand here…and, here." Tommy positioned them to their own ports. He dropped a bag that clattered next to each. "There are ten forty round magazines in those bags. Keep us covered and their heads down. Use short bursts, don't overheat your guns. Hold until my signal. Josh! How are we?"
"We're…we're as good as we'll get." He looked up from his computers to give the red giant Industrial a mix of fear and awe. "Okay, so I'm not totally sure how its combat parameters work…"
"Meaning it'll turn on us, what?"
"If you'd let me finish…thank you. I have managed to set it to react only. I think. It should only attack if you shoot it, throw shit at it, or something like that. Bear that in mind, and for the Love of God, P.B.R., and Eva Green…check your fire."
"Don't shoot the giant, killer robot. Got it." Shifty confirmed and donned his helmet.
"No Vial?" Shifty had stashed his case away.
"Nah, waste of a Vial and against the rules. Strictly for Men in Black or extraterrestrials only. Plus, the lead-time on replacement Vials is atrocious."
"Take one, use it well…take one, use it well…take one, use it well…" Mike held out a box filled with Mk II's. I took one of the steel pineapples and hooked it onto my harness by its spoon. Everyone made last minute equipment checks, checked each other for hard to reach or seen places, and made certain our magazines were topped off. Satisfied with everyone's readiness, Tommy last turned to Canti.
"Well? You want in on this? Or do you wanna sit out? Either way, your choice."
"If by shooting, then no." Canti's screen replied. "But if there's another way I can help, I will." Tommy looked around and spotted half a bulldozer blade we'd been cutting chunks off for scrap. "Can you carry that?" It weighed at least a thousand pounds.
"That I can do." Canti picked up the blade, sufficiently hidden behind it with ample room to spare.
"Excellent! Mike, see this hole here? That'll be your firing port, and Rig, you'll be on this side to keep him and Canti from getting flanked." I didn't realize it at the moment, but Tommy probably put me behind the safer side of three inches of steel for a reason. "Good, good…everyone kosher?" Tommy went down his mental checklist. "Okay Josh, is the PA system working?"
"Stage is all yours." Tommy took the mic and made one last appeal to the boys in blue outside.
. . .
"Attention officers of the State Patrol!" The shop's loudspeaker crackled, still active. Corporal Warren, now the ranking officer with all six months of experience, had been trying to organize the remnants of the Task Force. Now someone inside the shop was bloviating at them again. "Attention officers of the State Patrol!"
"This's Corporal Warren, commanding officer!" He had to keep one shoulder on Sergeant Peterson to keep the corpse off the loudspeaker controls. "Have you decided to come quietly?"
"Far from it, Corporal Warren. This is your last chance to surrender and receive the fairest trail the Galactic Court can offer. And since you've all put up such an admirable fight, I will write a letter of commendation on your behalf. But this is an offer that'll go fast. Take it or leave it."
"Carson, I have my orders, and I intend to follow them! Now either come out, or we're going to drag you out!"
"From where I stand, I count forty-one dead Pennsylvanians. Do not force us to make it forty-two."
"There's no way out, we've, we've got you surrounded!"
"Bull-fucking-shit you do. We've got more cameras 'round here than an Amsterdam peep show. You've got 'bout twenty odd of you left, all right in MY FAMILY'S yard."
"We still outnumber you, two to one!"
"I'm sorry, but what's your point?" That one stung.
"Y-you, you might get us, but we've got half the county comin' down the road! They'll be here any minute, and once they've seen this mess you've made, they won't be as patient or understanding as I am."
"Corporal, please stop lying. We've been jamming your radios. There are no reinforcements coming. It's just you…and us."
"You cheating, cowardly bastards!" Corporal Warren, tired, frustrated, and certainly not trained in negotiations, lost his cool. "Come out and fight! Instead of hiding in your hole, come out and fight us like men!"
"…Oke-ah-doke. Have it your way. We'll do just that. Josh, spin that shit."
. . .
Tommy tossed Josh back the mic and both readied up with us at the door. I pulled back the bolt on my rifle, checking for sure a round was chambered, and also verified for the tenth time the selector lever was midway down in Full-Auto. For an odd second, it was blissfully quiet. Just the forced shallow breathing to calm our nerves, and the creaking clinks of our Ned Kelly's. Then the music started.
. . .
**Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…
Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh-heh…
Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…
Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…
Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…
As a skeptical Peter Cushing's voice repeated, grisly organs and groaning tunes crept from the loudspeakers, all lights on the property except the ones facing the police, went out. A heavy metallic pounding sounded in addition to the music, and the shop's left bay door began to open. Even in the brightness of lights shining in their eyes and in the door's shadow, the officers could make out a pair of massive robotic feet, then legs, knees, torso…
"Holy fuckin' shit! What IS that thing?!"
"I-I dunno!" Corporal Warren was rendered useless at the sight.
"It's moving, coming right at us!" Now wailing, tortured and screaming guitar and chest-thudding drums blasted with directed volume, deafening all outside. A hulking machine, humanoid in form but terrifying in scale, marched forth while swinging in its hands an eight foot section of steel beam. Painted red and towering above their MRAP's, the police couldn't decide what to do in facing a Medical Mechanica Industrial for the very first time.
"C-Corporal! What do we do?! CORPORAL?!"
"Shoot, shoot the Goddamn thing! SHOOT!" As they threw up a ballistic reply, the State Police were vividly reminded the metal giant had backup. Seven more figures emerged from behind it, using it was a walking tank for cover. Each newcomer was clad head to toe in heavy plates of overlapping steel; armored suits weighing at least a hundred pounds of metal. As two ports in the shop reignited with gunfire, four of the figures drew back and lobbed grenades before the whole group opened fire; drowning the yard in muzzle blasts.
We all go down for the Sacrificial Moment!
Crucifixion Nails stain the bed of The Holy!
Space-thing blues, diamond-studded, sugar-coated!
Well I am HELL, a miracle overloadin'!
TURRRNNN Me on , Yeah!
A Electric Head all over!
TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!
A Electric Head all over!
Corporal Warren helplessly looked on as the, the…thing approached the MRAP closest to it. The truck's roof gunner fired his M240 until the barrel glowed, the rounds plinking against a hastily welded shell of double-layered inch thick steel plates. The robot raised its steel beam and brought it down on the MRAP's roof. With a crackling squelch, the machinegun was silenced while the MRAP was nearly bisected. Finding its weapon stuck fast, the Industrial leaned back and used a push of its heel to roll the MRAP over, crushing two more police in cover behind it. Then it swung its glowing eye gaze the way of Corporal Warren, and advanced.
. . .
I've never been the biggest White Zombie, or Rob Zombie, fan but when it works, does it deliver. When that door opened, our strategy was loosely based on whichever way the Industrial went. The idea was to have Canti, Mike, and I, on its left and use Mike's RPK to suppress the cops behind their vehicles. Johnny, Josh, Shifty, and Tommy, would all go on the right, around the vehicles and hit the police flank. Simple in theory…
The suits we were wearing were made of half-inch heat-treated and hardened steel plates, all over a coat and pants of Kevlar weave, and both hung on a harness of nylon and leather straps. It'll shrug off your 0.38's, 9mm's, 0.40's, and 0.45's, and most 5.56mm standard ball. One problem is every hit feels like getting slugged with a baseball bat. The first hit I took skated off my shoulder, leaving an ugly bruise from the divot knocked into the steel, the same with my right knee, then a third bounced off my helmet with a dull K-Whrungg…A few slivers spalled off and cut into each section hit, soaking my right arm, leg, and right side of my face before my boot started filling with blood. But the Ned Kelly, as we called them, did its job and kept me gaping and sucking wound free.
Canti, self-limited as his role was, did an awesome job. If he was capable of being scared, he didn't show it. Mike called out adjustments, forward, left, right, stop, and Canti flawlessly carried our shield. I'm still not sure what he was thinking, but I'm glad he agreed to help.
Across the way, things were mixed. I saw both Josh and Shifty take hits. Josh had his left leg knocked sideways, but managed to stay upright. A round had found a weak point on the flat of his outer thigh plate, and a second one the same on his calf. Struggling and stumbling forward at half-speed, he trailed a ditch dug with a dragging foot; filling it with splotches as he pressed forward.
Get inside, get in there!
Well, Evil in your eyes Baby, I don't care!
Get inside, get in there! Yeah!
We'll see the Flesh fallin' everywhere!
Shifty took a buckshot pattern to his left arm, one of the pellets finding a gap in the plates. It went into his bicep, bounced off his humerus, and came out his triceps. It then ricocheted off his triceps' armor and reentered the muscle. And at the same time, his magazine ran dry. With no sling, he had to drop to his right knee, with left arm clenched to his chest, and as he did, tucked his AK behind his bent right knee; pinning it by the barrel, upside down, so the magazine stuck up at the sky. He knocked the empty mag loose and left it, drew another, rocked and locked it, charged back the bolt, then stood and swung the rifle back to his shoulder, and continued to fire one-handed…all like he'd done it ten thousand times and it was a mild inconvenience. Meanwhile, the Industrial still rampaged and the music still cranked.
We all go down for a piece of the moment!
Watch another burn to the death, to the Core!
And the Roadshow thrills, packs the Freaks and the Phonies!
Singin' now is now! Yeah, all I ever wanted!
TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!
A Electric Head all over!
TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!
A Electric Head all over!
The only reason the Industrial held up as long as it did was the extra plates we had spot welded on; most on its center of mass. Before we swept the field, the Troopers got in some good hits on it, figuring out quickly its limbs were its weakest points. It still managed to swat two of them out of its way, crushed a third underfoot, kicked in the cabin of the second MRAP, then pulled the vehicle's turret right the ever lovin' fuck off; ripping half the roof with it. The last turret gunner swung his sights squarely on the Industrial, and went cyclical. A two hundred round long burst sent spinning ricochets whipping and zinging every damn which way in a brilliant shower of orange tracers. Half its face shot away, bleeding hydraulic fluid, the Industrial died a second death, thudding to the ground hard enough to make the stones bounce.
"Canti! Angle the blade!" Mike ordered and Canti adjusted us to a forty five degree, side-stepping, angle to the last turret. With a handful of Troopers left fighting with admirable ferocity, the turret gunner swung 'round to us; while Shifty, Tommy, Johnny, and Josh took cover behind the Industrial's corpse. From there they duked it out with the last pocket of resistance.
A machinegun duel at under fifty yards is an awesome spectacle that'll put the Fear of God into anyone. Mike and the last M240 swapped shots, their orange tracers versus Mike's green. Three inches of steel vibrated against my left shoulder, drumming rounds looking for enough purchase to penetrate. But angled as we were, the rounds were bouncing off, sailing into the morning gloom as dimming, super-sonic fireflies. Finally, enough rounds were thrown his way that the gunner caught one with his dome and disappeared down into his MRAP's crew compartment.
"Did we get 'em? Is it over?!"
"Don't relax yet!"
"SHIT!" Someone across the yard yelled before cutting loose a sharp burst of AK fire. "Tried to jump me!" Ah, t'was Johnny. My hearing was severely diminished, feeling like my head was inside a ringing Big Ben.
"Clear the area, then clear the dead and check for wounded!" Tommy ordered. After a quick look around, no one else was to be seen. In the distance, as my hearing came back, echoing bursts of gunfire could be heard, sirens wailing throughout. They weren't our priority at the moment, as long as they didn't come up the driveway. Now we checked the bodies for dead, pretend dead, and wounded.
"Got a live one!" Josh announced, holding his rifle square on a Trooper's forehead. He was pinned under the Industrial's arm; just enough to keep him there, but he was otherwise uninjured. Soiled skivvies notwithstanding. "Two live ones! Second's in bad shape!"
"Good! Hey, you hurt at all, can you get out from under there?" Tommy joined Josh and I, focusing on the conscious Trooper while Mike, Johnny, and Shifty grabbed the other.
"W-what do you, th-thi-think?!" His face was hidden behind a balaclava and goggles, but a dumb, deaf, and blind man could tell he surely thought we were gonna shoot him. I have no illusions he would have if it were any of us under that Industrial's arm. But hey, a squad of primitive Iron Men and their Rock-Em, Sock-Em had just wiped out his task force; and with a soundtrack to boot. "If I'd could'ah gotten loose, I would've."
"Fair enough. Canti, do you think you could lift this?" Canti obliged, lifting up the Industrial's arm to the man could wriggle out. Halfway out, he sat up and had, not a lightbulb moment…more of a candle moment; and it got him burned. The Trooper decided he would draw his pistol, bear with me, it gets better. Draw his pistol, and aim it not at Josh, Tommy, or me, but at CANTI…and fire off a round that bounced off Canti's shoulder with a deflationary ting. Canti, I would imagine offended and repulsed by such dumb-fuckery, and wanting no part in or of it, first dropped the Industrial's arm, right on the Trooper's foot; crushing it. Second, he formed a perfect first and with no warning drawback, socked the Trooper square on the nose with a soul-satisfying THR-Whack! He fell backwards right onto his back, and decided a nap was his best plan.
"Okay…Hooo-uuacchht!" Tommy spat a dark blob of something bloody. "Fine. Be that way. Josh, Rig. Drag his ass inside. Mike, get with Johnny when he's done and help him set up security with Kamon and Shigekuni. Josh, Shifty, see Rita and have her look at those wounds. Rig, when you're done, help Rita okay?"
"Got…huhghghhh…it." I said as Josh and I dragged Trooper Attitude by his arms. "What about you?"
"I'm gonna first switch off our jammer, then get on the radio, maybe phone, see if service is still up or if the cops have shut it down. Then get ahold of our friends and find out who is still with us. After that…well…we'll burn that bridge when we come to it."
. . .
*The Game - Motorhead
**Electric Head Pt. 1 (The Agony) - White Zombie
I have used Electric Head before, once in Redneck of Roanapur; where it had been used originally in the Black Lagoon manga (sadly not in the anime!) The heaviest my metal gets is around Judas Priest, so I don't know any really good 'head-bangin', smash 'em up, shoot 'em down' songs with lyrics. The soundtracks to Quake II and the new DOOM are good...but lack words. But Electric Head (The Agony) is one I find myself coming back to. The lyrics don't make sense when you write them down...but man does it make you feel badass.
Cole's powerlust paranoia seems to be getting the better of him, it's like he's forgotten the big picture of what he's involved in, and is only focused on securing the ground he stands on. How well that will go over with the officer corps of the State Patrol, the other sergeants, lieutenants, and his captain, seems open and shut. But will he be able to pull it off?
In other news, we go live to...holy crap, is that Naota stealing a sheriff's car?! Look at that kid go, has he got some balls, or what?! Desperate times and all, but who'd-ah thunk it? Looking back at this moment, I wish I could have fanangled him using his bass to some effect on those deputies...but act of mischief at a time!
Finally, I hope you've still got ahold of your helmet. Now that the guns are out, and we can FINALLY get over the pre-party and to the real-deal, you're gonna need it. Please let me know how this trio of chapters held up, if they stood on their own, or where refinement is needed, questions that have come up. Until next time, thank you for reading, and I really think we should do this again sometime. How does December sound?
